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D.  Appleton  c^*  Co.'s   Valuable  Publications. 

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LITERARY 

SKETCHES  AND  LETTERS 


BEING   THE 


FINAL  MEMORIALS 

OF 

CHARLES    LAMB, 

NEVER  BEFORE  PUBLISHED. 
BY 

THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD, 

ONE    OF    HIS    EXECUTORS. 
SECOND      EDITION. 


NEW- YORK : 
I).  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 
GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  1C4  CHESNUT-STREET. 

MDCCCXLIX. 


TO 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  Esa.,  D.  C.  L., 

POET    LAUREATE, 

THESE  FINAL  MEMORIALS 

OF   ONE   WHO   CHERISHED   HIS   FRIENDSHIP   AS   A   COMFORT   AMIDST 

GRIEFS,   AND   A   GLORY   AMIDST   DEPRESSIONS, 

ARE,  WITH  AFFECTION  AND  RESPECT, 

INSCRI BED 

BY  ONE   WHOSE   PRIDE    IS   TO   HAVE   BEEN   IN   OLD   TIME   HIS 

EARNEST   ADMIRER, 

AND   ONE   OF   WHOSE   FONDEST   WISHES   IS 

THAT  HE    MAT  BE    LONG   SPARED   TO   ENJOY   FAME,   RARELY 

ACCORDED   TO   THE   LIVING. 


PREFACE 


Nearly  twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  the  Letters  of 
Charles  Lamb,  accompanied  by  such  slight  sketches  of  his 
Life  as  might  link  them  together,  and  explain  the  circum- 
stances to  which  they  refer,  were  given  to  the  world.  In 
the  Preface  to  that  work,  reference  was  made  to  letters  yet 
remaining  unpublished,  and  to  a  period  when  a  more  com- 
plete estimate  might  be  formed  of  the  singular  and  delightful 
character  of  the  writer  than  was  there  presented.  That 
period  has  arrived.  Several  of  his  friends,  who  might  pos- 
sibly have  felt  a  moment's  pain  at  the  publication  of  some  of 
those  effusions  of  kindness,  in  which  they  are  sportively 
mentioned,  have  been  removed  by  death ;  and  the  dismissal 
of  the  last,  and  to  him  the  dearest  of  all,  his  sister,  while  it 
has  brought  to  her  the  repose  she  sighed  for  ever  since  she 
lost  him,  has  released  his  biographer  from  a  difficulty  which 
has  hitherto  prevented  a  due  appreciation  of  some  of  his 
noblest  qualities.  Her  most  lamentable,  but  most  innocent 
agency  in  the  event  which  consigned  her  for  life  to  his  pro- 
tection, forbade  the  introduction  of  any  letter,  or  allusion  to 
any  incident,  which  might  ever,  in  the  long  and  dismal 
twilight  of  consciousness  which  she  endured,  shock  her  by 
the  recurrence  of  long  past  and  terrible  sorrows  ;  and  the 
same  consideration  for  her  induced  the  suppression  of  every 
passage  which  referred  to  the  malady  with  which  she  was 


through  life  at  intervals  afflicted.  Although  her  death  had 
removed  the  objection  to  a  reference  to  her  intermittent  suf- 
fering, it  still  left  a  momentous  question,  whether  even  then, 
when  no  relative  remained  to  be  affected  by  the  disclosure,  it 
would  be  right  to  unveil  the  dreadful  calamity  which  marked 
one  of  its  earliest  visitations,  and  which,  though  known  to 
most  of  those  who  were  intimate  with  the  surviving  sufferers, 
had  never  been  publicly  associated  with  their  history.  When, 
however,  1  reflected  that  the  truth,  while  in  no  wise  affecting 
the  gentle  excellence  of  one  of  them,  casts  new  and  solemn 
lights  on  the  character  of  the  other ;  that  while  his  frailties 
have  received  an  ample  share  of  that  indulgence  which  he 
extended  to  all  human  weaknesses,  their  chief  exciting  cause 
has  been  hidden ;  that  his  moral  strength  and  the  extent  of 
his  self-sacrifice  have  been  hitherto  unknown  to  the  world  ;  I 
felt  that  to  develope  all  which  is  essential  to  the  just  appre- 
ciation of  his  rare  excellence,  was  due  both  to  him  and  to  the 
public.  While  I  still  hesitated  as  to  the  extent  of  disclosure 
needful  for  this  purpose,  my  lingering  doubts  were  removed 
by  the  appearance  of  a  full  statement  of  the  melancholy 
event,  with  all  the  details  capable  of  being  collected  from  the 
newspapers  of  the  time,  in  the  "  British  Quarterly  Review," 
and  the  diffusion  of  the  passage,  extracted  thence,  through 
several  other  journals.  After  this  publication,  no  doubt  could 
remain  as  to  the  propriety  of  publishing  the  letters  of  Lamb 
on  this  event,  eminently  exalting  the  characters  of  himself 
and  his  sister,  and  enabling  the  reader  to  judge  of  the  sacri- 
fice which  followed  it. 

I  have  also  availed  myself  of  the  opportunity  of  intro- 
ducing some  letters,  the  objection  to  publishing  which  has 
been  obviated  by  the  same  great  healer.  Time ;  and  of  ad- 
ding others  which  I  deemed  too  trivial  for  the  public  eye, 
when  the  whole  of  his  letters  lay  before  me,  collected  by  Mr, 


Moxon  from  tlie  distinguished  correspondents  of  Lamb,  who 
kindly  responded  to  his  request  for  permission  to  make  the 
public  sharers  in  their  choice  epistolary  treasures.  The 
appreciation  which  the  letters  already  published,  both  in  this 
country  and  America — perhaps  even  more  remarkable  in 
America  than  in  England— have  attained,  and  the  interest 
which  the  lightest  fragments  of  Lamb's  correspondence,  which 
have  accidentally  appeared  in  other  quarters,  have  excited, 
convince  me  that  some  letters  which  I  withheld,  as  doubting 
their  worthiness  of  the  public  eye,  will  not  now  be  unwel- 
come. There  is,  indeed,  scarcely  a  note — a  notelet — (as  he 
used  to  call  his  very  little  letters)  Lamb  ever  wrote,  which 
has  not  some  tinge  of  that  quaint  sweetness,  some  hint  of 
that  peculiar  union  of  kindness  and  whim,  which  distinguish 
him  fi'om  all  other  poets  and  humorists.  I  do  not  think  the 
reader  will  complain  that — with  some  very  slight  exceptions, 
which  personal  considerations  still  render  necessary — I  have 
made  him  a  partaker  of  all  the  epistolary  treasures  which 
the  generosity  of  Lamb's  correspondents  placed  at  Mr.  Moxon 's 
disposal. 

When  I  first  considered  the  materials  of  this  work,  I  pur- 
posed to  combine  them  with  a  new  edition  of  the  former 
volumes  ;  but  the  consideration  that  such  a  course  would  be 
unjust  to  the  possessors  of  those  volumes  induced  me  to  pre- 
sent them  to  the  public  in  a  separate  form.  In  accomplish- 
ing that  object,  I  have  felt  the  difficulty  of  connecting  the 
letters  so  as  to  render  their  attendant  circumstances  intelli- 
gible, without  falling  into  repetitions  of  passages  in  the  pre- 
vious biography.  My  attempt  has  been  to  make  these 
vol umes_ subsidiary  to  the  former,  and  yet  complete  in  them- 
selves ;  but  I  fear  its  imperfection  will  require  much  indul- 
gence from  the  reader.  The  italics  and  capitals  used  in 
printing  the  letters  are  always  those  of  the  writer  ;  and  the 


10  PREFACE. 

little  passages  sometimes  prefixed  to  letters,  have  been  print, 
ed  as  In  the  originals. 

In  venturing  to  introduce  some  notices  of  Lamb's  de- 
ceased companions,  I  have  been  impelled  partly  by  a  desire 
to  explain  any  allusion  in  the  letters  which  might  be  misun- 
derstood by  those  who  are  not  familiar  with  the  fine  vagaries 
of  Lamb's  affection,  and  partly  by  the  hope  of  giving  some 
faint  notion  of  the  entire  circle  with  which  Lamb  is  associ- 
ated in  the  recollection  of  a  few  survivors. 

T.  N.  T. 

London,  July,  1848. 


FINAL  MEMORIALS 

OF 

CHARLES     LAMB. 


CHAPTER  I. 

LETTERS  OF  LAMB  TO  COLERIDGE,  IN  THE  SPRING  AND  SUMMER  OF  1796. 

In  the  year  1795,  Charles  Lamb  resided  witli  his  father, 
mother,  and  sister,  in  lodgings  at  No.  7,  Little  Queen  Street, 
Holborn.  The  fatlier  was  rapidly  sinking  into  dotage  ;  the 
mother  suffered  under  an  infirmity  which  deprived  her  of  the 
use  of  her  limbs ;  and  the  sister  not  only  undertook  the  office 
of  daily  and  nightly  attendance  on  her  mother,  but  sought  to 
add  by  needlework  to  their  slender  resources.  Their  income 
then  consisted  of  an  annuity  which  Mr.  Lamb  the  elder  de- 
rived from  the  old  Bencher,  Mr.  Salt,  whom  he  had  faithfully 
served  for  many  years ;  Charles's  salary,  which,  being  that 
of  a  clerk  of  three  years'  standing  in  the  India  House,  could 
have  been  but  scanty ;  and  a  small  payment  made  for  board 
by  an  old  maiden  aunt,  who  resided  with  them.  In  this  year 
Lamb,  being  just  twenty  years  of  age,  began  to  write 
verses, — partly  incited  by  the  example  of  his  only  friend, 
Coleridge,  whom  he  regarded  with  as  much  reverence  as 
affection,  and  partly  inspired  by  an  attachment  to  a  young 
lady  residing  in  the  neighborhood  of  Islington,  who  is  com- 
memorated in  his  early  verses  as  "the  fair-haired  maid." 
How  his  love  prospered  we  cannot  ascertain ;  but  we  know 


12  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

how  nobly  that  love,  and  all  hope  of  the  earthly  blessings 
attendant  on  such  an  affection,  were  resigned  on  the  catas- 
trophe which  darkened  the  following  year.  In  the  meantime, 
his  youth  was  lonely — rendered  more  so  by  the  recollection 
of  the  society  of  Coleridge,  who  had  just  left  London — of 
Coleridge  in  the  first  bloom  of  life  and  genius,  unshaded  by 
the  mysticism  which  it  afterwards  glorified — full  of  bound- 
less ambition,  love,  and  hope !  There  was  a  tendency  to 
insanity  in  his  family,  which  had  been  more  than  once  devel- 
oped in  his  sister  ;  and  it  was  no  matter  of  surprise  that  in 
the  dreariness  of  his  solhude  it  fell  upon  him ;  and  that,  at 
the  close  of  the  year,  he  was  subjected  for  a  few  weeks  to 
the  restraint  of  the  insane.  The  wonder  is,  that  amidst  all 
the  difficulties,  the  sorrows,  and  the  excitements  of  his  suc- 
ceeding forty  years,  it  never  recurred.  Perhaps  the  true 
cause  of  this  remarkable  exemption — an  exemption  the  more 
remarkable  when  his  afHictions  are  considered  in  association 
with  one  single  frailty — will  be  found  in  the  sudden  claim 
made  on  his  moral  and  intellectual  nature  by  a  terrible  exi- 
gency, and  by  his  generous  answer  to  that  claim  ;  so  that  a 
life  of  self-sacrifice  was  rewarded  by  the  reservation  of  un- 
clouded reason. 

The  following  letter  to  Coleridge,  then  residing  at  Bristol, 
which  is  undated,  but  which  is  proved  by  circumstances  to 
have  been  written  in  the  spring  of  1790,  and  which  is  pro- 
bably the  earliest  of  Lamb's  letters  which  have  been  pre- 
served, contains  his  own  account  of  this  seizure.  Allusion 
to  the  same  event  will  be  perceived  in  two  letters  of  the  same 
year,  after  which  no  reference  to  it  appears  in  his  corres- 
pondence, nor  can  any  be  remembered  in  his  conversations 
with  his  dearest  friends. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Dear  C^ ,  make  yourself  perfectly  easy  about  May. 

I  paid  his  bill  when  I  sent  your  clothes.  I  was  flush  of 
money,  and  I  am  so  still  to  all  the  purposes  of  a  single  life ; 
so  give  yourself  no  further  concern  about  it.  The  money 
would  be  superfluous  to  me  if  I  had  it. 

When  Soufliey  becomes  as  modest  as  his  predecessor 
Milton,  and  publishes  his  Epics  in  duodecimo,  I  will  read 


LETTERS    TO    COLEUIDGE.  13 

'em ;  a  guinea  a  book  is  somewhat  exorbitant,  nor  have  I 
the  opportunity  of  borrowing  tho  work.  The  extracts  from 
it  in  the  Monthly  Reviews,  and  the  short  passages  in  your 
Watcliman,  seem  to  me  mucli  superior  to  any  thing  in  his 
partnership  account  with  Lovell.  Your  poems  I  shall  pro- 
cure forthwith.  There  were  noble  lines  in  what  you  inserted 
in  one  of  your  numbers,  from  "Religious  Musings;"  but  I 
thought  them  elaborate.  I  am  somewhat  glad  you  have  given 
up  that  paper;  it  must  have  been  dry,  unprofitable,  and  of 
dissonant  mood  to  your  disposition.  I  wish  you  success  in 
all  your  undertakings,  and  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  employed 
about  the  "  Evidences  of  Religion."  There  is  need  of  mul- 
tiplying such  books  a  hundred  fold  in  this  philosophical  age, 
to  prevent  converts  to  atheism,  for  they  seem  too  tough  dis- 
putants to  meddle  with  afterwards. 

Le  Grice  is  gone  to  make  puns  in  Cornwall.  He  has  got 
a  tutorship  to  a  young  boy  living  with  his  mother,  a  widow- 
lady.  He  will,  of  course,  initiate  him  quickly  in  "  whatso- 
ever things  are  lovely,  honorable,  and  of  good  report." 
Coleridge  !  I  know  not  what  sutlering  scenes  you  have  gone 
through  at  Bristol.  My  life  has  been  somewhat  diversified 
of  late.  The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year  and  began 
this,  your  very  humble  servant  spent  very  agreeably  in  a 
madhouse,  at  Hoxton.  I  am  got  somewhat  rational  now,  and 
don't  bite  any  one.  But  mad  I  was  !  And  many  a  vagary 
my  imagination  played  with  me,  enough  to  make  a  volume, 
if  all  were  told.  My  sonnets  I  have  extended  to  the  number 
of  nine  since  I  saw  you,  and  will  some  day  cornmunicjate  to 
you.  I  am  beginning  a  poem  in  blank  verse,  which,  if  I 
finish,  I  publish.  White  is  on  the  eve  of  publishing  (he 
took  the  hint  from  Vortigcrn)  "  Original  Letters  of  Falstafi', 
Shallow,"  &c.,  a  copy  you  sliall  have  when  it  comes  out. 
They  are  without  exception  the  best  imitations  I  ever  saw. 
Coleridge  !  it  may  convince  you  of  my  regards  for  you  when 
I  tell  you  my  head  ran  on  you  in  my  madness,  as  much  al- 
most as  on  another  person,  who  I  am  inclined  to  think  was 
the  more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary  frenzy. 

The  Sonnet  I  send  you  has  small  merit  as  poetry ;  but 
you  will  be  curious  to  read  it  when  I  tell  you  it  was  written 
in  my  prison-house  in  one  of  my  lucid  intervals. 


14  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fell, 

Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind, 

'Twas  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 
And  troubled  tlioughts,  clouding  the  purer  well. 

And  waters  clear,  of  Reason  ;  and  for  me 

Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be — 

My  verse,  which  thou  to  praise  wert  e'er  inclined 

Too  highly,  and  with  a  partial  eye  to  see 
No  blemish.     Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 

Kindest  affection  ;  and  wouldst  oft-times  lend 

An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay. 

Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 
But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 

Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  my  friend. 

With  these  lines,  and  with  that  sister's  kindest  remem- 
brances to  C ,  I  conclude.     Yours,  sincerely, 

Lamb. 

Your  "  Conciones  ad  Populum  "  are  the  most  eloquent 
politics  that  ever  came  in  my  way. 

Write  when  convenient — not  as  a  task,  for  there  is  no- 
thing in  this  letter  to  answer. 

We  cannot  send  our  remembrances  to  Mrs.  C,  not  hav- 
ing seen  her,  but,  believe  me,  our  best  good  wishes  attend 
3^ou  both. 

My  civic  and  poetic  compliments  to  Southey,  if  at  Bris- 
tol ; — why,  he  is  a  very  Leviathan  of  Bards — the  small  min- 
now, I ! 


In  the  spring  of  this  year,  Coleridge  proposed  the  as- 
sociation of  those  first  eiforts  of  the  young  clerk  in  the 
India  House,  which  he  had  prompted  and  praised,  with  his 
own,  in  a  new  edition  of  his  Poems,  to  which  Mr.  Charles 
Lloyd  also  proposed  to  contribute.  The  following  letter 
comprises  Sonnets  transmitted  to  Coleridge  for  this  purpose, 
accompanied  by  remarks  so  characteristic  as  to  induce  the 
hope  that  the  reader  will  forgive  the  introduction  of  these 
small  gems  of  verse  which  were  published  in  due  course,  for 
the  sake  of  the  original  setting. 


LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE.  15 


TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

I  am  in  such  violent  pain  with  the  headache,  that  I  am 
fit  for  nothing  but  transcribing,  scarce  for  that.  When  I  get 
your  poems,  and  the  "Joan  of  Arc,"  I  will  exercise  my 
presumption  in  giving  you  my  opinion  of  'em.  The  mail 
does  not  come  in  before  to-morrow  (Wednesday)  morning. 
The  following  Sonnet  was  composed  during  a  walk  down  into 
Hertfordshire' early  in  last  summer  : — 

The  Lord  of  Light  shakes  off  his  drowsyhed,* 

Fresh  from  his  couch  up  springs  the  lusty  sun, 

And  girds  himself  his  mighty  race  to  run  ; 
Meantime,  by  truant  love  of  rambling  led, 
I  turn  my  back  on  thy  detested  walls, 

Proud  city,  and  thy  sons  I  leave  behind, 

A  selfish,  sordid,  money-getting  kind. 
Who  shut  their  ears  when  holy  Freedom  calls. 
I  pass  not  thee  so  lightly,  humble  spire. 

That  mindest  me  of  many  a  pleasure  gone, 

Of  merriest  days  of  Love  and  Islington, 
Kindling  anew  the  flames  of  past  desire  ; 

And  I  shall  muse  on  thee,  slow  journeying  on, 
To  the  green  plains  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire. 

The  last  line  is  a  copy  of  Bowles's,  ''  To  the  green  ham- 
let in  the  peaceful  plain."  Your  ears  are  not  so  very  fas- 
tidious ;  many  people  would  not  like  words  so  prosaic  and 
familiar  in  a  Sonnet  as  Islington  and  Hertfordshire.  The 
next  was  written  within  a  day  or  two  of  the  last,  on  revisiting 
a  spot  "where  the  scene  was  laid  of  my  first  Sonnet  "  that 
mocked  my  step  with  many  a  lonely  glade." 

When  last  I  roved  these  winding  wood-walks  green. 
Green  winding  walks,  and  shady  pathways  sweet ; 

Oft-times  would  Anna  seek  the  silent  scene. 
Shrouding  her  beauties  in  the  lone  retreat. 

No  more  I  hear  her  footsteps  in  the  shade  ; 
Her  image  only  in  these  pleasant  ways 
Meets  me  self-wandering,  where  in  happier  days 

I  held  free  converse  with  my  fair-haired  maid. 
I  passed  the  little  cottage  which  she  loved, 

*  "  Drowsyhed"  I  have  met  with,  I  think,  in  Spenser.  'Tis  an  old 
thing,  but  it  rhymes  with  led,  and  rhyming  covers  a  multitude  of  licenses. 
— C.  Lamb's  Manuscripts. 


16  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

The  cottage  which  did  once  my  all  contain  ; 
It  spake  of  days  that  ne'er  must  eome  again  ; 

Spake  to  my  heart,  and  much  my  heart  was  moved. 
Now  "  Fair  befall  thee,  gentle  maid,"  said  I ; 
And  from  the  cottage  turned  me  with  a  sigh. 

The  next  retains  a  few  lines  from  a  Sonnet  of  mine 
which  you  once  remarked  had  no  "  body  of  thought"  in  it. 
I  agree  with  you,  but  have  preserved  a  part  of  it,  and  it  runs 
thus.     I  flatter  myself  you  will  like  it : — 

A  timid  grace  sits  trembling  in  her  eye. 

As  loth  to  meet  the  rudeness  of  men's  sight ; 
Yet  shedding  a  delicious  lunar  light. 
That  steeps  in  kind  oblivion's  ecstacy 
The  care-crazed  mind,  like  some  still  melody  : 

Speaking  most  plain  the  thoughts  which  do  possess 
Her  gentle  sprite,  peace  and  meek  quietness. 
And  innocent  loves,*  and  maiden  purity  : 

A  look  whereof  might  heal  the  cruel  smart 
Of  changed  friends  ;  or  Fortune's  wrongs  unkind ; 
Might  to  sweet  deeds  of  mercy  move  the  heart 
Of  him  who  hates  his  brethren  of  mankind  : 
Turned  are  those  lights  from  me,  who  fondly  yet 
Past  joys,  vain  loves,  and  buried  hopes  regret. 

The  next  and  last  I  value  most  of  all.  'Twas  composed 
close  upon  the  heels  of  the  last,  in  that  very  wood  I  had  in 
mind  when  I  wrote — "  Methinks  how  dainty  sweet." 

We  were  two  pretty  babes,  the  youngest  she. 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween, 
And  Innocence  her  name.     The  time  has  been 

We  two  did  love  each  other's  company  ; 

Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart : 
But  when,  with  show  of  seeming  good  beguil'd, 
I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child. 

And  my  first  love  for  man's  society. 

Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 

My  loved  companion  dropt  a  tear,  and  fled, 

And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head. 
Beloved  !   who  shall  tell  me  where  thou  art — 
•  In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 

That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around  ? 

Since  writing  it,  I  have  found  in  a  poem  by  Hamilton  of 
Bangor,  these  two  lines  to  "  Happiness." 

*  Cowley  uses  this  phrase  with  a  somewhat  different  meaning.  I 
meant,  loves  of  relatives,  friends,  &c. — C.  Lamb's  Manuscripts. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  17 

Nun,  sober  and  devout,  where  art  thou  fled 
To  hide  in  shades  thy  meek  contented  head  ? 

Lines  eminently  beautiful  ;  but  I  do  not  remember  having 
read  them  previously,  for  the  credit  of  my  ten  and  eleven 
lines.  Parnell  has  two  lines  (which  probably  suggested  the 
above)  to  "  C/ontentment." 

Whither,  ah  !  whither  art  thou  fled 
To  hide  thy  meek  contented*  head  1 

Cowley's  exquisite  "  Elegy  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
Harvey,"  suggested  the  phrase  of  "  we  two." 

Was  there  a  tree  that  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? 

So  much  for  acknowledged  plagiarisms,  the  confession  of 
which  1  know  not  whether  it  has  more  of  vanity  or  modesty 
in  it.  As  to  my  blank  verse,  I  am  so  dismally  slow  and 
sterile  of  ideas  (I  speak  from  my  heart)  that  I  much  ques- 
tion if  it  will  ever  come  to  any  issue.  I  have  hitherto  only 
hammered  out  a  few  independent,  unconnected  snatches,  not 
in  a  capacity  to  be  sent.  I  am  very  thankful.  I  have  one 
more  favor  to  beg  of  you,  that  you  never  mention  ]\Ir.  May's 
affair  in  any  sort,  much  less  iliiiik  of  repaying.  Are  we  not 
flocci-nauci-what-d'ye-call-'em-ists  ?  We  have  just  learned 
that  my  poor  brother  has  had  a  sad  accident ;  a  large  stone 
blown  down  by  yesterday's  high  wind  has  bruised  his  leg  in 
a  most  shocking  manner ;  he  is  under  the  care  of  Cruik- 
shanks.  Coleridge  !  there  are  10,000  objections  against  my 
paying  you  a  visit  at  Bristol  ;  it  cannot  be  else ;  but  in  this 
world  it's  better  not  to  think  too  much  of  pleasant  possibles, 
that  we  may  not  be  out  of  humor  with  present  insipids. 
Should  any  thing  bring  you  to  London,  you  will  recollect 
No.  7,  Little  Queen  Street,  Hoi  born. 

I  shall  be  too  ill  to  call  on  Wordsworth  myself,  but  will 
take  care  to  transmit  him  his  poem,  when  I  have  read  it.  I 
saw  Le  Grice  the  day  before  his  departure,  and  mentioned 
incidentally  his  "  teaching  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot." 
Knowing  the  probability  there  is  of  people  having  a  propen- 
sity to  pun  in   his   company,  you  will   not  wonder  that  we 

*  An  odd  epithet  for  Contentment  in  a  poet  so  poetical  as  Parnell. — 
C.  Lamb's  Manuscripts. 


18  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

both  stumbled  on  the  same  pun  at  once,  lie  eagerly  an- 
ticipating me, — "he  would  teach  him  to  shoot."  Poor  Le 
Grice  !  if  wit  alone  could  entitle  a  man  to  respect,  &c., 
he  has  written  a  very  witty  little  pamphlet  lately,  satirical 
upon  college  declamations.  When  I  send  White's  book,  I 
will  add  that.  I  am  sorry  there  should  be  any  difference 
between  you  and  Southey.  "  Between  you  two  there  should 
be  peace,"  tho'  I  must  say  I  have  borne  him  no  good  will 
since  he  spirited  you  away  from  among  us.  What  is  be- 
come of  Moschus  ?  You've  sported  some  of  his  sublimities, 
I  see,  in  your  Watchman.  Very  decent  things.  So  much 
for  to-night,  from  your  afflicted,  head-achey,  sore-throatey, 
humble  servant, 

C.  Lamb. 

Tuesday  night. — Of  your  Watchman,  the  Review  of 
Burke  was  the  best  prose.  I  augured  great  things  from  the 
first  number.  There  is  some  exquisite  poetry  interspersed. 
I  have  re-read  the  extract  from  the  "  Religious  Musings," 
and  retract  whatever  invidious  there  was  in  my  censure  of  it 
as  elaborate.  There  are  times  when  one  is  not  in  a  dispo- 
sition thoroughly  to  relish  good  writing.  I  have  re-read  it  in 
a  more  favorable  moment,  and  hesitate  not  to  pronounce  it 
sublime.  If  there  be  any  thing  in  it  approaching  to  tumidity 
(which  1  meant  not  to  infer  ;  by  elaborate  I  meant  simply 
labored,)  it  is  the  gigantic  hyperbole  by  which  you  describe 
the  evils  of  existing  society  ;  "  Snakes,  lions,  hyenas,  and 
behemoths,"  is  carrying  your  resentment  beyond  bounds. 
The  pictures  of  "  The  Simoom,"  of  "  Frenzy  and  Ruin," 
of  "The  Whore  of  Babylon,"  and  "The  Cry  of  Foul 
Spirits  disherited  of  Earth,"  and  "the  strange  beatitude" 
which  the  good  man  shall  recognize  in  heaven,  as  well  as 
the  particularizing  of  the  children  of  wretchedness  (I  have 
unconsciously  included  every  part  of  it),  form  a  variety  of 
uniform  excellence.  I  hunger  and  thirst  to  read  the  poem 
complete.     That  is  a  capital  line  in  your  sixth  number — 

"  This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  month." 

They  are  exactly  such  epithets  as  Burns  would  have  stum- 
bled on,  whose  poem  on  the  ploughed-up  daisy  you  seem  to 
have  had  in  mind.      Your  complaint  that  of  your  readers 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  19 

some  thought  there  was  too  much,  some  too  little  original 
matter  in  your  numbers,  reminds  me  of  poor  dead  Parsons 
in  the  "Critic."  "  Too  little  incident  !  Give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  sir,  there  is  too  much  incident."  1  had  like  to  have 
forgot  thanking  you  for  that  exquisite  little  morsel,  the  first 
Sclavonian  Song.  The  expression  in  the  second, — "  more 
happy  to  be  unhappy  in  hell ;"  is  it  not  very  quaint  ?  Ac- 
cept my  thanks,  in  common  with  those  of  all  who  love  good 
poetry,  for  "  The  Braes  of  Yarrow."  I  congratulate  you  on 
the  enemies  you  must  have  made  by  your  splendid  invective 
against  the  barterers  in  human  flesh  and  sinews.  Coleridge, 
you  will  rejoice  to  hear  that  Cowper  is  recovered  from  his 
lunacy,  and  is  employed  on  his  translation  of  the  Italian, 
&c.  poems  of  Milton  for  an  edition  where  Fuseli  presides  as 
designer.  Coleridge !  to  an  idler  like  myself,  to  write  and 
receive  letters  are  both  very  pleasant,  but  I  wish  not  to 
break  in  upon  your  valuable  time  by  expecting  to  hear  very 
frequently  from  you.  Reserve  that  obligation  for  your 
moments  of  lassitude,  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do  ; 
for  your  loco- restive  and  all  your  idle  propensities,  of  course, 
have  given  way  to  the  duties  of  providing  for  a  family.  The 
mail  is  come  in,  but  no  parcel ;  yet  this  is  Tuesday.  Fare- 
well, then  till  to-morrow,  for  a  niche  and  a  nook  I  must 
leave  for  criticisms.  B}'  the  way,  I  hope  you  do  not  send 
your  own  only  copy  of  Joan  of  Arc  ;  I  will  in  that  case 
return  it  immediately. 

Your  parcel  is  come ;  you  have  been  lavish  of  your 
presents. 

Wordsworth's  poem  I  have  hurried  through,  not  without 
delight.  Poor  Lovell  !  my  heart  almost  accuses  me  for  the 
light  manner  I  spoke  of  him  above,  not  dreaming  of  his 
death.  My  heart  bleeds  for  your  accumulated  troubles  ; 
God  send  you  through  'em  with  patience.  I  conjure  you 
dream  not  that  I  will  ever  think  of  being  repaid ;  the  very 
word  is  galling  to  the  ears.  I  have  read  all  your  "  Religious 
Musings"  with  uninterrupted  feelings  of  profound  admira- 
tion. You  may  safely  rest  your  fome  on  it.  The  best  re- 
maining things  are  what  I  have  before  read,  and  they  lose 
nothing  by  recollection  of  your  manner  of  reciting  them,  for 
I  too  bear  in  mind  "  the  voice,  the  look,"  of  absent  friends, 
and  can  occasionally  mimic  their  manner  for  the  amusement 


20  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

of  those  who  have  seen  'em.  Your  impassioned  manner  of 
recitation  I  can  recall  at  any  time  to  mine  own  heart  and  to 
the  ears  of  the  bystanders.  I  rather  wish  you  had  left  the 
monody  on  Chatterton  concluding  as  it  did  abruptly.  It  had 
more  of  unity.  The  conclusion  of  your  "  Religious  Mu- 
sings "  I  fear  will  entitle  you  to  the  reproof  of  your  beloved 
woman,  who  wisely  will  not  suffer  your  fancy  to  run  riot, 
but  bids  you  walk  humbly  with  your  God.  The  very  last 
words,  "  I  exercise  my  young  noviciate  thought  in  ministeries 
of  heart-stirring  song,"  though  not  now  new  to  me  cannot  be 
enough  admired.  To  speak  politely,  they  are  a  well-turned 
compliment  to  Poetry.  I  hasten  to  read  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  &c. 
I  have  read  your  lines  at  the  beginning  of  second  book  :  they 
are  worthy  of  Milton  ;  but  in  my  mind  yield  to  your  "  Reli- 
gious Musings."  I  shall  read  the  whole  carefully,  and  in 
some  future  letter  take  the  liberty  to  particularize  my  opin- 
ions of  it.  Of  what  is  new  to  me  among  your  poems  next 
to  the  "  Musings,"  that  beginning  "  My  Pensive  Sara"  gave 
me  most  pleasure :  the  lines  in  it  I  just  alluded  to  are  most 
exquisite ;  they  made  my  sister  and  self  smile,  as  convey- 
ing a  pleasing  picture  of  Mrs.  C.  checking  your  wild  wan- 
derings, which  we  were  so  fond  of  hearing  you  indulge  when 
among  us.  It  has  endeared  us  more  than  any  thing  to  your 
good  lady,  and  your  own  self-reproof  that  follows  delighted 
us.  'Tis  a  charming  poem  throughout  (you  have  well  re- 
marked that  charming,  admirable,  exquisite  are  the  words 
expressive  of  feelings  more  than  conveying  of  ideas,  else  I 
might  plead  very  well  want  of  room  in  my  paper  as  excuse 
for  generalizing.)  I  want  room  to  tell  you  how  we  are 
charmed  with  your  verses  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  &c., 
&;c.,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  I  am  glad  you  resume  the  Watchman. 
Change  the  name  ;  leave  out  all  articles  of  news,  and  what- 
ever things  are  peculiar  to  newspapers,  and  confine  yourself 
to  ethics,  verse,  criticism — or  rather  do  not  confine  yourself. 
Let  your  plan  be  as  diffuse  as  the  "Spectator,"  and  I'll 
answer  for  it  the  work  prospers.  If  I  am  vain  enough  to 
think  I  can  be  a  contributor,  rely  on  my  inclinations.  Cole- 
ridge !  in  reading  your  "  Religious  Musings,"  I  felt  a  tran- 
sient superiority  over  you.  I  have  seen  Priestly.  I  love  to 
see  his  name  repeated  in  your  writings.  I  love  and  honor 
him  almost  profanely.      You  would   be  charmed  with  his 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  21 

Sermons,  if  you  never  read  them.  You  have  doubtless  read 
his  books  illustrative  of  the  doctrine  of  Necessity.  Prefixed 
to  a  late  work  of  his  in  answer  to  Paine,  there  is  a  preface 
giving  an  account  of  the  man,  of  his  services  to  men,  written 
by  Lindsey,  his  dearest  friend,  well  worth  your  reading. 

Tuesday  eve. — Forgive  my  prolixity,  which  is  yet  too 
brief  for  all  I  could  wish  to  say.  God  give  you  comfort, 
and  all  that  are  of  your  household  !  Our  loves  and  best 
good  wishes  to  Mrs.  C. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  parcel  mentioned  in  the  last  letter,  brought  the 
"  Joan  of  Arc,"  and  a  request  from  Coleridge,  that  Lamb 
would  freely  criticise  his  poems  with  a  view  to  their  selec- 
tion and  correction  for  the  contemplated  volume.  The  reply 
is  contained  in  the  following  letter  which,  written  on  several 
days,  begins  at  the  extreme  top  of  the  first  page,  without  any 
ceremony  of  introduction,  and  is  comprised  in  three  sheets 
and  a  bit  of  foolscap. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

With  *'  Joan  of  Arc"  I  have  been  delighted,  amazed ; 
I  had  not  presumed  to  expect  any  thing  of  such  excellence 
from  Southey.  Why  the  poem  is  alone  sufficient  to  redeem 
the  character  of  the  age  we  live  in  from  the  imputation  of 
degenerating  in  Poetry,  were  there  no  such  beings  extant  as 

Burns,  and   Bowles,  Cowper,   and ;  fill  up  the  blank 

how  you  please  ;  I  say  nothing.  The  subject  is  well  chosen. 
It  opens  well.  To  become  more  particular,  I  will  notice  in 
their  order  a  few  passages  that  chiefly  struck  me  on  perusal. 
Page  26,  "  Fierce  and  terrible  Benevolence  !"  is  a  phrase 
full  of  grandeur  and  originality.  The  whole  context  made 
me  feel  -possessed,  even  like  Joan  herself  Page  28,  "  It  is 
most  horrible  with  the  keen  sword  to  gore  the  finely-fibred 
human  frame,"  and  what  follows  pleased  me  mightily.  In 
the  2nd  Book,  the  first  forty  lines  in  particular  are  majestic 
and  high-sounding.  Indeed  the  whole  vision  of  the  Palace 
of  Ambition  and  what  follows  are  supremely  excellent.  Your 
simile  of  the  Laplander,  "  By  Niemi  lake,  or  Balda  Zhiok, 


22  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHAKLES    LAMB. 

or  the  mossy  stone  of  Solfar-Kapper,"*  will  bear  compiaison 
with  any  in  Milton  for  fullness  of  circumstance  and  lofty- 
pacedness  of  versification.  Southey's  similes,  though  many 
of  them  are  capital,  are  all  inferior.  In  one  of  his  books, 
the  simile  of  the  oak  in  the  storm  occurs,  I  think,  four  times. 
To  return  ;  the  light  in  which  you  view  the  heathen  deities 
is  accurate  and  beautiful.  Southey's  personifications  in 
this  book  are  so  many  fine  and  faultless  pictures.  I  was 
much  pleased  with  your  manner  of  accounting  for  the  reason 
why  monarchs  take  delight  in  war.  At  the  447th  line  you 
have  placed  Prophets  and  Enthusiasts  check  by  jowl,  on  too 
intimate  a  footing  for  tiie  dignity  of  the  former.  Necessarian- 
like speaking,  it  is  correct.  Page  98,  "  Dead  is  the  Doug- 
las !  cold  their  warrior  frame,  illustrious  Buchan,"  &c.,  are  of 
kindred  excellence  with  Gray's  "  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue," 
&c.  How  famously  the  maid  baflies  the  Doctors,  Seraphic 
and  Irrefragable,  "  with  all  their  trumpery !"  The  pro- 
cession, the  appearance  of  the  Maid,  of  the  Bastard  Son  of 
Orleans  and  of  Tremouille,  are  full  of  fire  and  fancy,  and 
exquisite  melody  of  versification.  The  personifications  from 
line  303  to  309,  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  had  better  been 
omitted  ;  they  are  not  very  striking,  and  only  encumber. 
The  converse  which  Joan  and  Conrade  hold  on  the  banks  of 
the  Loire  is  altogether  beautiful.  Page  313,  the  conjecture 
that  in  dreams  "  all  things  are  that  seem,"  is  one  of  those 
conceits  which  the  Poet  delights  to  admit  into  his  creed — a 
creed,  by  the  way,  more  marvellous  and  mystic  than  ever 
Athanasius  dreamed  of  Page  31.5,  I  need  only  mention 
those  lines  ending  with  "  She  saw  a  serpent  gnawing  at  her 
heart !"  They  are  good  imitative  lines,  "  he  toiled  and  toiled, 
of  toil  to  reap  no  end,  but  endless  toil  and  never-ending  wo  ;" 
347  page.  Cruelty  is  such  as  Hogarth  might  have  painted 
her.  Page  361,  all  the  passage  about  Love  (where  he 
seems  to  confound  conjugal  love  with  creating  and  preserv- 
ing love)  is  very  confused,  and  sickens  me  with  a  load  of 
useless  personifications ;  else  that  ninth  Book  is  the  finest  in 
the  volume — an  exquisite  combination  of  the  ludicrous  and 
the  terrible  :  I  have  never  read  either,  even  in  translation, 
but  such  I   conceive  to   be  the  matter  of  Dante  or  Ariosto. 

*  Lapland   mountniiis.     Tlie  versos  referred  to  are  published  in  Mr. 
Coleridge's  Poem  entitled  "  The  Destiny  of  Nations:  a  Vision." 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  23 

The  tenth  Book  is  the  most  languid.  On  the  whole,  consider- 
ing the  celerity  wherewith  the  poem  was  finished,  I  was 
astonished  at  tlie  unfrequency  of  weak  lines.  I  had  expected 
to  find  it  verbose.  Joan,  I  think,  does  too  little  in  battle  ; 
Dunois  perhaps  the  same ;  Conrade  too  much.  The  anec- 
dotes interspersed  among  the  battles  refresh  the  mind  very 
agreeably,  and  I  am  delighted  with  the  many  passages  of 
simple  pathos  abounding  througliout  the  poem,  passages 
which  the  author  of  "  Crazy  Kate"  might  have  written.  Has 
not  Master  Southey  spoke  very  slightingly,  in  Jiis  preface, 
and  disparagingly  of  Cowper's  Homer  ?  What  makes  him 
reluctant  to  give  Cowper  his  fame  ?  And  does  not  Southey 
use  too  often  the  expletives  "  did"  and  "  does  ?"  They 
have  a  good  effect  at  times,  but  are  too  inconsiderable,  or 
rather  become  blemishes,  when  they  mark  a  style.  On  the 
whole,  I  expect  Southey  one  day  to  rival  Milton  :  I  already 
deem  him  equal  to  Cowper,  and  superior  to  all  living  poets 
besides.  What  says  Coleridge  ?  The  "  Monody  on  Hen- 
derson" is  immensely  good,  the  rest  of  that  little  volume  is 
readable  and  above  mediocrity.  I  proceed  to  a  more  pleasant 
task ;  pleasant  because  the  poems  are  yours  ;  pleasant  be- 
cause you  impose  the  task  on  me  ;  and  pleasant,  let  me  add, 
because  it  will  confer  a  whimsical  importance  on  me,  to  sit 
in  judgment  upon  your  rhymes.  First,  though  let  me  thank 
you  again  and  again,  in  my  own  and  my  sister's  name,  for 
your  invitations  ;  nothing  could  give  us  more  pleasure  than 
to  come,  but  (were  there  no  other  reasons)  while  my  bi'oth- 
er's  leg  is  so  bad  it  is  out  of  the  question,  Poor  fellow  !  he 
is  very  feverish  and  light-headed,  but  Cruikshanks  has  pro- 
nounced the  symptoms  favorable,  and  gives  us  every  hope 
that  there  will  be  no  need  of  amputation  ;  God  send  not  ! 
We  are  necessarily  confined  with  him  all  the  afternoon  and 
evening  till  very  late,  so  that  I  am  stealing  a  minute  to  write 
to  you. 

Thank  you  for  your  frequent  letters ;  you  are  the  only 
correspondent,  and  I  might  add,  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
world.  I  go  nowhere,  and  have  no  acquaintance.  Slow  of 
speech,  and  reserved  of  manners,  no  one  seeks  or  cares  for 
my  society  ;  and  I  am  left  alone.  A calls  only  occa- 
sionally, as  though  it  were  a  duty  rather,  and  seldom  stays 
ten  minutes.     Then  judge  liow  thankful  I  am  for  your  let- 


24  FINAL    BIEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

ters !  Do  not,  however,  burthen  yourself  with  the  corre- 
spondence. I  trouble  you  again  so  soon,  only  in  obedience 
to  your  injunctions.  Complaints  apart,  proceed  we  to  our 
task.  I  am  called  away  to  tea  ;  thence  must  wait  upon  my 
brother;  so  must  delay  till  to-morrow.  Farewell.  Wednes- 
day. 

Thursday. — I  will  first  notice  what  is  new  to  me.  Thir- 
teenth page  :  "  The  thrilling  tones  that  concentrate  the  soul" 
is  a  nervous  line,  and  the  six  first  lines  of  page  fourteen  are 
very  pretty  ;  the  twenty-first  effusion  a  perfect  thing.  That 
in  the  manner  of  Spenser  is  very  sweet,  particularly  at  the 
close  :  the  thirty-fifth  effusion  is  most  exquisite  ;  that  line  in 
particular,  "  And,  tranquil,  muse  upon  tranquillity."  It  is 
the  very  reflex  pleasure  that  distinguishes  the  tranquillity  of 
a  thinking  being  from  that  of  a  shepherd,  a  modern  one  I 
would  be  understood  to  mean,  a  Damsetas,  one  that  keeps 
other  people's  sheep.  Certainly,  Coleridge,  your  letter  from 
Shurton  Bai's  has  less  merit  than  most  things  in  your  volume  ; 
personally  it  may  chime  in  with  your  own  feelings,  and 
therefore  you  love  it  best.  It  has,  however,  great  merit.  In 
your  fourth  epistle  that  is  an  exquisite  paragraph,  and  fancy- 
full,  of  "  A  stream  there  is  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow,"  &c., 
&c.  "  Murmurs  sweet  unisons  'mid  jasmin  bowers"  is  a 
sweet  line,  and  so  are  the  three  next.  The  concluding 
simile  is  far-fetched — "  tempest-honored "  is  a  quaintish 
phrase. 

Yours  is  a  poetical  fiimily.  I  was  much  surprised  and 
pleased  to  see  the  signature  of  Sara  to  that  elegant  composi- 
tion, the  fifth  epistle.  I  dared  not  criticise  the  "  Religious 
Musings;"  I  like  not  to  select  any  part,  where  all  is  excel- 
lent. I  can  only  admire,  and  thank  you  for  it  in  the  name 
of  a  Christian,  as  well  as  a  lover  of  good  poetry  ;  only  let  me 
ask,  is  not  that  thought  and  those  words  in  Young,  "  stands 
in  the  sun," — or  is  it  only  such  as  Young,  in  one  of  his  better 
moments,  might  have  writ  ? — 

"  Believe  thou,  0  my  soul, 

Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  truth  ; 

And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave. 

Shapes  of  a  dream  !" 

I  thank  you  for  these  lines  in  the  name  of  a  necessarian,  and 
for  what  follows  in  next  paragraph,  in  the  name  of  a  child  of 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  25 

fancy.  After  all,  you  cannot,  nor  ever  will,  write  anything 
with  which  I  shall  be  so  delighted  as  what  I  have  heard  your- 
self repeat.  You  came  to  town,  and  I  saw  you  at  a  time 
when  your  heart  was  yet  bleeding  with  recent  wounds.  Like 
yourself,  I  was  sore  galled  with  disappointed  hope;  you  had 

"  many  an  holy  lay 

That,  mourning,  soothed  the  mourner  on  his  way  ;" 

1  had  ears  of  sympathy  to  drink  them  in,  and  Ihey  yet  vi- 
brate pleasant  on  the  sense.  When  I  read  in  your  little  vol- 
ume, your  nineteenth  elFusion,  or  the  twenty-eighth,  or 
twenty-ninth,  or  what  you  call  the  "  Sigh,"  I  think  I  hear 
you  again.  I  imagine  to  myself  the  little  smoky  room  at 
the  Salutation  and  Cat,  where  we  have  sat  together  through 
the  winter  nights,  beguiling  the  cares  of  life  with  Poesy. 
When  you  left  London,  I  felt  a  disiTial  void  in  my  heart.  I 
found  myself  cut  off  at  one  and  the  same  time  from  two  most 
dear  to  me.  "  How  blest  with  ye  the  path  could  1  have  trod 
of  quiet  life  !"  In  your  conversation  you  had  blended  so 
many  pleasant  fancies  that  they  cheated  me  of  my  grief. 
But  in  your  absence  the  tide  of  melancholy  rushed  in  again 
and  did  its  worst  mischief  by  overwhelming  my  reason.  I 
have  recovered,  but  feel  a^stupor  that  makes  me  indifferent 
to  the  hopes  and  fears  of  this  life.  I  sometimes  wish  to  intro- 
duce a  religious  turn  of  mind,  but  habits  are  strong  things, 
and  my  religious  fervors  are  confined,  alas !  to  some  fleeting 
moments  of  occasional  solitary  devotion.  A  correspondence, 
opening  with  you,  has  roused  me  a  little  from  my  lethargy 
and  made  me  conscious  of  existence.  Indulge  me  in  it :  I 
will  not  be  very  troublesome  !  At  some  future  time  I  will 
amuse  you  with  an  account,  as  fuU  as  my  memory  will  per- 
mit, of  the  strange  turns  my  phrensy  took.  I  look  back  upon 
it  at  times  with  a  gloomy  kind  of  envy  ;  for  while  it  lasted, 
I  had  many,  many  hours  of  pure  happiness.  Dream  not, 
Coleridge,  of  having  tasted  all  the  grandeur  and  wildness  of 
fancy  till  you  have  gone  mad  !  All  now  seems  to  me  vapid, 
comparatively  so.  Excuse  tliis  selfish  digression.  Your 
"  Monody"  is  so  superlatively  excellent,  that  I  can  only  wish 
it  perfect,  which  I  can't  help  feeling  it  is  not  quite.  Indulge 
me  in  a  few  conjectures  ;  what  I  am  going  to  propose  would 
make  it  more  compressed,  and  I  think,  more  energetic,  though 

2 


26  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LABIB. 

I  am  sensible  at  the  expense  of  many  beautiful  lines.  Let 
it  begin  "  Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ?"  and  pro- 
ceed to  "  Otway's  famished  form  ;"  then,  "  The  Chatterton," 
to  "  blaze  of  Seraphim ;"  then,  "  clad  in  Nature's  rich  ar- 
ray," to  "  orient  day ;"  then  "  but  soon  the  scathing  light- 
ning" to  "  blighted  land  ;"  then,  "  sublime  of  thought,"  to 
"his  bosom  glows  ;"  then, 

"  But  soon  upon  his  poor  unsheltered  head 
Did  Penury  her  sickly  mildew  shed  ; 
And  soon  are  fled  the  charms  of  early  grace. 
And  joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  his  face." 

Then  "  youth  of  tunmltuous  soul"  to  "  sigh"  as  before.  The 
rest  may  all  stand  down  to  "  gaze  upon  the  waves  below." 
What  follows  may  now  come  next  as  detached  verses,  sug- 
gested by  the  Monody,  rather  than  a  part  of  it.  They  are, 
indeed,  in  themselves  very  sweet. 

"  And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 
Hanging  enraptured  on  thy  stately  song  !" 

in  particular,  perhaps.  If  I  am  obscure,  you  may  understand 
me  by  counting  lines  :  I  have  proposed  omitting  twenty- four 
lines  :  I  feel  that  thus  compressed  it  would  gain  energy,  but 
think  it  most  likely  you  will  not  agree  with  me  ;  for  who 
shall  go  about  to  bring  opinions  to  the  bed  of  Procrustes,  and 
introduce  among  the  sons  of  men  a  monotony  of  identical 
feelings  ?  I  only  propose  with  diffidence.  Reject  you,  if 
you  please,  with  as  little  remorse  as  you  would  the  color  of  a 
coat  or  the  pattern  of  a  buckle,  where  our  fancies  differed. 
The  "  Pixies"  is  a  perfect  thing,  and  so  are  the  "  Lines 
on  Spring,"  page  28.  The  "  Epitaph  on  an  Infant,"  like  a 
Jack-o-lanthorn,  has  danced  about  (or  like  Dr.  Forster's 
scholars)  out  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  into  the  Watchman, 
and  thence  back  into  your  collection.  It  is  very  pretty,  and 
you  seem  to  think  so,  but,  may  be,  overlooked  its  chief  merit, 
that  of  filling  up  a  whole  page.  I  had  once  deemed  Sonnets 
of  unrivalled  use  that  way,  but  your  Epitaphs,  I  find,  are  the 
more  diffuse.  "  Edmund"  still  holds  its  place  among  your 
best  verses.  "  Ah  !  fair  delights"  to  "  roses  round"  in  your 
Poem  called  "  Absence,"  recall  (none  more  forcibly)  to  my 
mind  the  tones  in  which  yon  recited  it.  I  will  not  notice,  in 
this  tedious  (to  you)  manner,  verses  which  have  been  so  long 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  27 

delightful  to  me,  and  which  you  already  know  my  opinion 
of.  Of  this  kind  are  Bowles,  Priestly,  and  that  most  exqui- 
site and  most  Bowles-like  of  all,  the  nineteenth  elFusion.  It 
would  have  better  ended  with  "  agony  of  care  ;"  the  two 
last  lines  are  obvious  and  unnecessary,  and  you  need  not 
now  make  fourteen  lines  of  it  ;  now  it  is  rechristened  from  a 
Sonnet  to  an  Etfusion.  Schiller  might  have  written  the 
twentieth  effusion  :  'tis  worthy  of  him  in  any  sense.  I  was 
glad  to  meet  with  those  lines  you  sent  me  when  my  sister 
was  so  ill ;  I  had  lost  the  copy,  and  felt  not  a  little  proud  at 
seeing  my  name  in  your  verse.  The  complaint  of  Nina- 
thoma  (first  stanza  in  particular)  is  the  best,  or  only  good 
imitation,  of  Ossian,  I  ever  saw — your  "  Restless  Gale"  ex- 
cepted. "To  an  Infant"  is  most  sweet;  is  not  "  foodful," 
though,  very  harsh  ?  Would  not  "  dulcet"  fruit  be  less 
harsh,  or  some  other  friendly  bi-syllable  ?  In  "  Edmund," 
"  Frenzy  !  fierce-eyed  child"  is  not  so  well  as  "  frantic," 
though  that  is  an  epithet  adding  nothing  to  the  meaning. 
Slander  couching  was  better  than  "  squatting-"  In  the  "  Man 
of  Ross"  it  was  a  better  line  thus  : 

"If  'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheered  moments  pass," 

than  as  it  stands  now.  Time  nor  nothing  can  reconcile  me 
to  the  concluding  five  lines  of  "  Kosciusko  :"  call  it  any  thing 
you  will  but  sublime.  In  my  twelfth  effusion  I  had  rather 
have  seen  what  I  wrote  myself,  though  they  bear  no  com- 
parison with  ycur  exquisite  lines — 

"  On  rose-leaf-beds  amid  your  faery  bowers,"  &c. 

I  love  my  sonnets  because  they  are  the  reflected  images 
of  my  own  feelings  at  different  times.  To  instance,  in  the 
thirteenth — 

"  How  reason  reeled,"  &c., 

are  good  lines,  but  must  spoil  the  whole  with  me,  who  know 
it  is  only  a  fiction  of  yours,  and  that  the  "  rude  dashings  " 
in  fact  did  not  "  rock  me  to  repose."  I  grant  the  same  ob- 
jection applies  not  to  the  former  sonnet ;  but  still  I  love  my 
own  feelings ;  they  are  dear  to  memory,  though  they  now 
and  then  wake  a  sigh  or  a  tear.  "  Thinking  on  divers  things 
foredone,"  I  charge  you,  Coleridge,  spare  my  ewe-lambs  ; 
and  though  a  gentleman  may  borrow  six  lines  in  an  epic 


28  FINAL    MEBIORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

poem  (I  should  have  no  objection  to  borrow  five  hundred,  and 
without  acknowledging),  still,  in  a  sonnet,  a  personal  poem,  I 
do  not  "  ask  my  friend  the  aiding  verse  ;"  I  would  not  wrong 
your  feelings,  by  proposing  any  improvements  in  such  per- 
sonal poems  as  "  Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  heart," — 'od  so, — I 
am  caught — I  have  already  done  it ;  but  that  simile  I  propose 
abridging,  would  not  change  the  feeling  or  introduce  any 
alien  ones.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  In  the  twenty-eighth, 
however,  and  in  the  "  Sigh,"  and  that  composed  at  Clevedon, 
things  that  come  from  the  heart  direct,  not  by  the  medium  of 
the  fancy,  I  would  not  suggest  an  alteration.  When  my 
blank  verse  is  finished,  or  any  long  fancy  poem,  "  propono 
tibi  alterandum,  cut-up-andum,  abridgandum,"  just  what  you 
will  with  it;  but  spare  my  ewe-lambs!  That  "To  Mrs. 
Siddons,"  now,  you  were  welcome  to  improve,  if  it  had  been 
worth ;  but  I  say  unto  you  again,  Coleridge,  spare  my  ewe- 
lambs  !  I  must  confess,  were  they  mine,  I  should  omit,  in 
editione  secunda,  effusions  two  and  three,  because  satiric  and 
below  the  dignity  of  the  poet  of  "  Religious  Musings,"  fifth, 
seventh,  half  of  the  eighth,  that  "  Written  in  early  youth," 
as  far  as  "  thousand  eyes," — though  I  part  not  unreluctantly 
with  that  lively  line — 

"  Chaste  joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes," 

and  one  or  two  just  thereabouts.  But  I  would  substitute  for 
it  that  sweet  poem  called  "  Recollection,"  in  the  fifth  number 
of  the  Watchman,  better,  I  think,  than  the  remainder  of  this 
poem,  though  not  differing  materially  :  as  the  poem  now 
stands  it  looks  altogether  confused  ;  and  do  not  omit  those 
lines  upon  the  "  Early  Blossom,"  in  your  sixth  number  of 
the  Watchman  ;  and  I  would  omit  the  tenth  effusion,  or  what 
would  do  better,  alter  and  improve  the  last  four  lines.  In 
fact,  I  suppose,  if  they  were  mine,  I  should  not  omit  'em ;  but 
your  verse  is,  for  the  most  part,  so  exquisite,  that  I  like  not 
to  see  aught  of  meaner  matter  mixed  with  it.  Forgive  my 
petulance,  and  often,  I  fear,  ill-founded  criticisms,  and  forgive 
me  that  I  have,  by  this  time,  made  your  eyes  and  head  ache 
with  my  long  letter ;  but  I  cannot  forego  hastily  the  pleasure 
and  pride  of  thus  conversing  with  you.  You  did  not  tell  me 
whether  I  was  to  include  the  "  Concioncs  ad  Populum  "  in 
my  remarks  on  your  poems.     They  are  not  unfrequently 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  29 

sublime,  and  I  think  you  could  not  do  better  than  to  turn  'em 

into  verse — if  you  have  nothing  else  to  do.     A ,   I  am 

sorry  to  say,  is  a  coiijirmed  Atheist ;  S ,   a   cold-hearted, 

well-bred,  conceited  disciple  of  Godwin,  does  him  no  good. 

How  I  sympathize  with  you  on  the  dull  duty  of  a  re- 
viewer,  and   heartily   damn  with   you  Ned   E and  the 

Prosodist.  I  shall,  however,  wait  impatiently  for  the  articles 
in  the  Critical  Review,  next  month,  because  they  are  yours. 
Young  E.  (W.  Evans,  a  branch  of  a  family  you  were  once 
so  intimate  with)  is  come  into  our  office,  and  sends  his  love 
to  you  !  Coleridge  !  I  devoutly  wish  that  Fortune,  who  has 
made  sport  with  you  so  long,  may  play  one  freak  more,  throw 
you  into  London,  or  some  spot  near  it,  and  there  snug-ify  you 
for  life.  It  is  a  selfish,  but  natural  wish  for  me,  cast  as  I  am 
"on  life's  wide  plain,  friendless."  Are  you  acquainted  with 
Bowles  ?  I  see,  by  his  last  Elegy,  (written  at  Bath,)  you 
are  near  neighbors.      Thursday. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in  your 
stricture  upon  my  sonnet  "  To  Innocence."  To  men  whose 
hearts  are  not  quite  deadened  by  their  commerce  with  the 
world,  innocence  (no  longer  familiar)  becomes  an  awful  idea. 
So  I  felt  wiien  I  wrote  it.  Your  other  censures  (qualified  and 
sweetened,  though,  with  praises  somewhat  extravagant)  I 
perfectly  coincide  with  ;  yet  I  choose  to  retain  the  word 
"  lunar" — indulge  a  "  lunatic  "  in  his  loyalty  to  his  mistress 
the  moon  !  I  have  just  been  reading  a  most  pathetic  copy  of 
verses  on  Sophia  Pringle,  who  was  hanged  and  burnt  for 
coining.  One  of  the  strokes  of  pathos  (which  are  very  many, 
all  somewhat  obscure,)  is,  "  She  lifted  up  her  guilty  forger 
to  heaven."  A  note  explains,  by  "  forger,"  her  right  hand, 
with  which  she  forged  or  coined  the  base  metal.  For  pathos 
read  bathos.  You  have  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  my  blank 
verses  by  your  "  Religious  Musings."  I  think  they  will 
come  to  nothing.  I  do  not  like  'em  enough  to  send  them.  I 
have  just  been  reading  a  book,  which  I  may  be  too  partial 
to,  as  it  was  the  delight  of  my  childhood  ;  but  I  will  recom- 
mend it  to  you  ; — it  is  Izaak  Walton's  "  Complete  Angler." 
All  the  scientific  part  you  may  omit  in  reading.  The  dia- 
logue is  very  simple,  full  of  pastoral  beauties,  and  will  charm 
you.  Many  pretty  old  verses  are  inserted.  This  letter, 
which  would  be  a  week's  work  reading  only,  I  do  not  wish 


30  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

you  to  answer  it  in  less  than  a  month.  I  shall  be  richly  con- 
tent with  a  letter  from  you  some  day  early  in  July  ;  though 
if  you  get  any  how  settled  before  then,  pray  let  me  know  it 
immediately  ;  it  would  give  me  much  satisfaction.  Concern- 
ing the  Unitarian  chapel,  the  salary  is  the  only  scruple  that 
the  most  rigid  moralist  would  admit  as  valid.  Concerning 
the  tutorage,  is  not  the  salary  low,  and  absence  from  your 
family  unavoidable  ?  London  is  the  only  fostering  soil  for 
genius.  Nothing  more  occurs  just  now  ;  so  I  will  leave  you, 
in  mercy,  one  small  white  spot  empty  below,  to  repose  your 
eyes  upon,  fatigued  as  they  must  be,  with  the  wilderness  of 
words  they  have  by  this  time  painfully  traveled  through. 
God  love  you,  Coleridge,  and  prosper  you  through  life ; 
though  mine  will  be  loss  if  your  lot  is  to  be  cast  at  Bristol, 
or  at  Nottingham,  or  anywhere  but  London.     Our  loves  to 

Mrs.  C . 

C.  L. 
Friday,  10th  June,  1796. 

Coleridge,  settled  in  his  melancholy  cottage,  invited  Lamb 
to  visit  him.  The  hope — the  expectation — the  disappoint- 
ment, are  depicted  in  the  following  letter,  written  in  the  sum- 
mer of  the  eventful  year  1796. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

The  first  moment  I  can  come,  I  will ;  but  my  hopes  of 
coming  yet  a  while,  hang  on  a  ticklish  thread.  The  coach 
I  come  by  is  immaterial,  as  I  shall  so  easily,  by  your  direc- 
tion, find  ye  out.  My  mother  is  grown  so  entirely  helpless 
(not  having  any  use  of  her  limbs)  that  Mary  is  necessarily 
confined  from  ever  sleeping  out,  she  being  her  bed-fellow. 
She  thanks  you  though,  and  will  accompany  me  in  spirit. 
Most  exquisite  are  the  lines  from  Withers.  Your  own  lines, 
introductory  to  your  poem  on  "  Self,"  run  smoothly  and 
pleasurably,  and  I  exhort  you  to  continue  'em.  What  shall 
I  say  to  your  "  Dactyls  ?"  They  are  what  you  would  call 
good  jjcr  sc,  but  a  parody  on  some  of  'em  is  just  now  sug- 
gesting itself,  and  you  shall  have  it  rough  and  unlicked ;  I 
mark  with  figures  the  lines  parodied  : — 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  31 

4. — Sorely  your  Dactyls  do  drag  along  limp-footed. 

5. — Sad  is  the  measure  that  hangs  a  clog  round  'em  so. 

6. — Meagre  and  languid,  proclaiming  its  wretchedness. 

1. — Weary,  unsatisfied,  not  a  little  sick  of 'em. 
11. — Cold  is  my  tired  heart,  I  have  no  charity. 

2. — Painfully  traveling  thus  over  the  rugged  road. 

7. — 0  begone,  measure,  half  Latin,  half  English,  then. 
12. — Dismal  your  Dactyls  are,  God  help  ye,  rhyming  ones! 

I  possibly  may  not  come  this  fortnight ;  therefore,  all 
thou  hast  to  do  is  not  to  look  for  me  any  particular  day,  only 
to  write  word  immediately,  if  at  any  time  you  quit  Bristol, 
lest  I  come  and  Taffy  be  not  at  home.     I  hope  I  can  come 

in  a  day  or  two  ;  but  young  S ,  of  my  office,  is  suddenly 

taken  ill  in  this  very  nick  of  time,  and  I  must  officiate  for 
him  till  he  can  come  to  work  again  :  had  the  knave  gone 
sick,  and  died,  and  been  buried  at  any  other  time,  philosophy 
might  have  afforded  one  comfort,  but  just  now  I  have  no 
patience  with  him.  Quarles  I  am  as  great  a  stranger  to  as 
I  was  to  Withers.  I  wish  you  would  try  and  do  something 
lo  bring  our  elder  bards  into  more  general  fame.  I  writhe 
with  indignation  when,  in  books  of  criticism,  where  common- 
place quotation  is  heaped  upon  quotation,  I  find  no  mention 
of  such  men  as  Massinger,  or  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  men 
with  whom  succeeding  dramatic  writers  (Otway  alone  ex- 
cepted)* can  bear  no  manner  of  comparison.  Stupid  Knox 
hath  noticed  none  of  'em  among  his  extracts. 

Thursday. — Mrs.  C can  scarcely  guess  how  she  has 

gratified  me  by  her  very  kind  letter  and  sweet  little  poem. 
I  feel  that  I  should  thank  her  in  rhyme,  but  she  must  take 
my  acknowledgment,  at  present,  in  plain  honest  prose.     The 

*  An  exception  he  certainly  would  not  have  made  a  few  years  after- 
wards ;  for  he  used  to  mention  two  pretty  lines  in  the  "  Orphan," 

"  Sweet  as  the  shepherd's  pipe  upon  the  mountains. 
With  all  his  fleecy  flock  at  feed  beside  him," 

as  a  redeeming  passage  amidst  mere  stage  trickeries.  The  great  merit 
which  lies  in  the  construction  of  "  Venice  Preserved,"  was  not  in  his 
line  of  appreciation  ;  and  he  thought  Thompson's  reference  to  Otway's 
ladies — 

"  poor  Monimia  mourns. 

And  Belvidera  pours  her  soul  in  love," 

worth  both  heroines. 


32  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

uncertainty  in  which  I  yet  stand,  whether  I  can  come  or  no, 
damps  my  spirits,  reduces  me  to  a  degree  below  prosaical, 
and  keeps  me  in  a  suspense  that  fluctuates  between  hope 
and  fear.  Hope  is  a  charming,  lively,  blue-eyed  wench,  and 
1  am  always  glad  of  her  company,  but  could  dispense  with 
the  visitor  she  brings  with  her — her  younger  sister,  Fear,  a 
white-livered,  lily-cheeked,  bashful,  palpitating,  awkward 
hussy,  that  hangs,  like  a  green  girl,  at  her  sister's  apron- 
strings,  and  will  go  with  her  wherever  she  goes.  For  the 
life  and  soul  of  me,  I  could  not  improve  those  lines  in  your 
poem  on  the  Prince  and  Princess,  so  I  changed  them  to  what 
you  bid  me,  and  left  them  at  Perry's.*  1  think  them  alto- 
gether good,  and  do  not  see  why  you  wei'e  solicitous  about 
my  alteration.  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but  will  make  it  my 
business  to  see,  to-day's  Chronicle,  for  your  verses  on  Home 
Tooke.  Dyer  stanza'd  him  in  one  of  the  papers  of  this  day, 
but,  I  think,  unsuccessfully.  Tooke's  friends  meeting  was, 
I  suppose,  a  dinner  of  condolence. f  I  am  not  sorry  to  find 
you  (for  all  Sara)  immersed  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  meta- 
physics. You  know  I  had  a  sneaking  kindness  for  this  last 
noble  science,  and  you  taught  me  some  smattering  of  it.  I 
look  to  become  no  mean  proficient  under  your  tuition.  Cole- 
ridge, what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  wrote  to  me  about 
Plutarch  and  Porphyry  ?  I  received  no  such  letter,  nor 
remember  a  syllable  of  the  matter,  yet  am  not  apt  to  forget 
any  part  of  your  epistles,  least  of  all,  an  injunction  like  that. 
I  will  cast  about  for  'em  tho'.  I  am  a  sad  hand  to  know 
what  books  are  worth,  and  both  these  worthy  gentlemen  are 
alike  out  of  my  line.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  less  suspensive, 
and  in  better  cue  to  write,  so  good  bye  at  present. 

Friday  Evening. — That  execrable  aristocrat  and  knave 

R has    given  me  an  absolute  refusal  of  leave.      The 

poor  man  cannot  guess  at  my  disappointment.  Is  it  not  hard, 
"  this  dread  dependence  on  the  low-bred  mind  ?"  Continue 
to  write  to  me  tho',  and  I  must  be  content.  Our  loves  and 
best  good  wishes  attend  upon  you  both. 

Lamb. 

*  Some  "  orcasional"  verses  of  Coleridge's  written  to  order  for  the 
Mornins?  Chronicle. 

t  This  was  just  after  the  Westminster  Election,  in  which  Mr.  Tooke 
was  defeated. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  33 

S did  return,  but  there  were  two  or  three  more  ill  and 

absent,  which  was  the  plea  for  refusing  me.     I  shall  never 
have  heart  to  ask  for  holidays  again.     The  man  next  him  in 

office,  C ,  furnished  him  with  the  objection. 

C.  Laimb. 

The  little  copy  of  verses  in  which  Lamb  commemorated 
and  softened  his  disappointment,  bearing  date  (a  most  unusual 
circumstance  with  Lamb),  5th  July,  1796,  was  inclosed  in  a 
letter  of  the  following  day,  which  refers  to  a  scheme  Cole- 
ridge had  formed  of  settling  in  London  on  an  invitation  to 
share  the  Editorship  of  the  Morning  Chronicle.  The  poem 
includes  a  lamentation  over  a  fantastical  loss — that  of  a 
draught  of  the  Avon  "  which  Shakespeare  drank  ;"  some- 
what strangely  confounding  the  Avon  of  Stratford  with  that 
of  Bristol.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  Shakespeare  knew  the 
taste  of  one  Avon  more  than  of  the  other,  or  whether  Lamb 
would  not  have  found  more  kindred  with  the  world's  poet  in 
a  glass  of  sack,  than  in  the  water  of  cither  stream.  Cole- 
ridge must  have  enjoyed  the  misplaced  sentiment  of  his 
friend,  for  he  was  singularly  destitute  of  sympathy  with 
local  associations,  which  he  regarded  as  interfering  with  the 
pure  and  simple  impression  of  great  deeds  or  thoughts  ;  de- 
nied a  special  interest  to  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae ;  and  in- 
stead of  subscribing  to  purchase  "  Shakespeare's  House," 
would  scarcely  have  admitted  the  peculiar  sanctity  of  the 
spot  which  enshrines  his  ashes. 


TO  SARA  AND  HER  SAMUEL. 

Was  it  so  hard  a  thing  ? — I  did  but  ask 
A  fleeting  holiday.     One  little  week. 
Or  haply  two  had  bounded  my  request. 

What  if  the  jaded  steer,  who  all  day  long 
Had  borne  the  heat  and  labor  of  the  plough, 
When  evening  came,  and  her  sweet  cooling  hour. 
Should  seek  to  trespass  on  a  neighbor  copse. 
Where  greener  herbage  waved,  or  clearer  streams 
Invited  him  to  slake  his  burning  thirst  1 
That  man  were  crabbed,  who  should  say  him  nay  ; 
That  man  were  churlish,  who  should  drive  him  thence ! 
2* 


34  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

A  blessing  light  upon  your  heads,  ye  good. 
Ye  hospitable  pair  !     I  may  not  come 
To  catch  on  Clifden's  heights  the  summer  gale  ; 
I  may  not  come  a  pilgrim  to  the  vales 
Of  Avon,  lucid  stream,  to  taste  the  waves 
Which  Shakspeare  drank,  our  British  Helicon : 
Or  with  mine  eye  intent  on  Redcliffe  towers, 
To  muse  in  tears  on  that  mysterious  youth. 
Cruelly  slighted,  who  to  London  walls. 
In  evil  hour,  shaped  his  disastrous  course. 
With  better  hopes,  I  trust,  from  Avon's  vales. 
Another  "  minstrel  "  cometh  !     Youth  endeared, 
God  and  good  angels  guide  thee  on  thy  road. 
And  gentler  fortunes  wait  the  friends  I  love. 

^  C.  L. 


The  letter  accompanying  these  verses  begins  cheerfully 
thus: 

What  can  I  do  till  you  send  word  what  priced  and  placed 
house  you  should  like  ?  Islington,  possibly,  you  would  not 
like ;  to  me  'tis  classical  ground.  Knightsbridge  is  a  desira- 
ble situation  for  the  air  of  the  parks  ;  St.  George's  Fields  is 
convenient  for  its  contiguity  to  the  Bench.  Choose  !  But, 
are  you  really  coming  to  town  ?  The  hope  of  it  has  entirely 
disarmed  my  petty  disappointment  of  its  nettles,  yet  I  rejoice 
so  much  on  my  own  account,  that  I  fear  I  do  not  feel  enough 
pure  satisfaction  on  yours.  Why,  surely,  the  joint  editorship 
of  the  Chronicle  must  be  very  comfortable  and  secure  living 
for  a  man.  But  should  you  not  read  French,  or  do  you  ?  and 
can  you  write  with  sufficient  moderation,  as  'tis  called,  when 
one  suppresses  the  one-half  of  what  one  feels  or  could  say 
on  a  subject,  to  chime  in  the  better  with  popular  lukewarm- 
ness?  White's  "Letters"  are  near  publication;  could  you 
review  'em  or  get  'em  reviewed  ?  Are  you  not  connected 
with  the  Critical  Review  ?  His  frontispiece  is  a  good  con- 
ceit— Sir  John  learning  to  dance  to  please  Madame  Page,  a 
dress  of  doublet,  &c.,  invests  his  upper  half,  and  modern 
pantaloons  with  shoes,  &c.,  of  the  eighteenth  century,  his 
lower  half;  and  the  whole  work  is  full  of  goodly  quips  and 
rare  fancies,  "  all  deftly  masqued  like  hoar  antiquity  " — 
much  superior  to  Dr.  Kendrick's  "  Falstaff's  Wedding," 
which  you   may  have   seen.     A sometimes  laughs  at 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  35 

superstition,  and  religion,  and  the  like.  A  living  fell  vacant 
lately  in  the  gift  of  the  hospital :  White  informed  him  that 
he  stood  a  fair  chance  for  it.  He  scrupled  and  scrupled 
about  it,  and  at  last,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  tampered"  with 
Godwin  to  know  whether  the  thing  was  honest  or  not.  God- 
win said  nay  to  it,  and  A rejected  the  living !     Could 

the  blindest  poor  papist  have  bowed  more  servilely  to  his 
priest  or  casuist  1  Why  sleep  the  Watchman's  answers  to 
that  Godwin  ?  I  beg  you  will  not  delay  to  alter,  if  you  mean 
to  keep  those  last  lines  I  sent  you.  Do  that,  and  read  these 
for  your  pains  : — 

TO  THE  POET  COWPER. 

Cowper,  I  thank  my  God  that  thou  art  heal'd  ! 
Thine  was  the  sorest  malady  of  all  ; 
And  I  am  sad  to  think  that  it  should  light 
Upon  the  worthy  head  !     But  thou  art  healed. 
And  thou  art  yet,  we  trust,  the  destined  man. 
Both  to  reanimate  the  lyre,  whose  chords 
Have  slumbered,  and  have  idle  lain  so  long; 
To  the  immortal  sounding  of  whose  strings 
Did  Milton  frame  the  stately-paced  verse  ; 
Among  whose  verses  with  light  finger  playing, 
Our  elder  bard,  Spenser,  a  gentle  name, 
The  lady  Muses'  dearest  darling  child. 
Elicited  the  deftest  tunes  yet  heard 
In  hall  or  bower,  taking  the  delicate  ear 
Of  Sidney  and  his  peerless  Maiden  Queen.| 


1796. 


Thou,  then,  take  up  the  mighty  epic  strain, 

Cowper,  of  England's  Bards,  the  wisest  and  the  best. 


I  have  read  your  climax  of  praises  in  those  three  Re- 
views. These  mighty  spouters  out  of  panegyric  waters 
have,  two  of  them,  scattered  their  spray  even  upon  me,  and 
the  waters  are  cooling  and  refreshing.  Prosaically,  the 
Monthly  reviewers  have  made  indeed  a  large  article  of  it, 
and  done  you  justice.  The  Critical  have,  in  their  wisdom, 
selected  not  the  very  best  specimens,  and  notice  not,  except 
as  one  name  on  the  muster-roll,  the  "  Religious  Musings." 
I  suspect  Master  D to  have  been  the  writer  of  that  arti- 
cle, as  the  substance  of  it  was  the  very  remarks  and  the  very 


36  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

language  he  used  to  me  one  day.  I  fear  you  will  not  accord 
entirely  with  my  sentiments  of  Cowper,  as  expressed  above 
(perhaps  scarcely  just)  ;  but  the  poor  gentleman  has  just 
recovered  from  his  lunacies,  and  that  begets  pity,  and  pity 
love,  and  love  admiration  ;  and  then  it  goes  hard  with  people 
but  they  lie  !  Have  you  read  the  ballad  called  "  Leonora," 
in  the  second  number  of  the  Monthly  Magazine  ?  If  you 
have  !  ! ! !  There  is  another  fine  song  from  the  same  author 
(Biirger),  in  the  third  number,  of  scarce  inferior  merit ;  and 
(vastly  below  these)  there  are  some  happy  specimens  of 
English  hexameters,  in  an  imitation  of  Ossian,  in  the  fifth 
number.  For  your  Dactyls — I  am  sorry  you  are  so  sore 
about  'em — a  very  Sir  Fretful !  In  good  troth,  the  Dactyls 
are  good  Dactyls,  but  their  measure  is  naught.  Be  not  your- 
self "  half  anger,  half  agony,"  if  I  pronounce  your  darling 
lines  not  to  be  the  best  you  ever  wrote  in  all  your  life — you 
have  written  much. 

Have  a  care,  good  Master  Poet,  of  the  Statute  de  Contu- 
melid.  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  Madame  Maras, — 
harlots,  and  naughty  things  ?*  The  goodness  of  the  verse 
would  not  save  you  in  a  court  of  justice.  But  are  you  really 
coming  to  town,  Coleridge  ?  A  gentleman  called  in  London 
lately,  from  Bristol,  and  inquired  whether  there  were  any  of 
the  family  of  a  Mr,  Chambers  living :  this  Mr.  Chambers,  he 
said,  had  been  the  making  of  a  friend's  fortune,  who  wished 
to  make  some  return  for  it.  He  went  away  without  seeing 
her.  Now,  a  Mrs.  Reynolds,  a  very  intimate  friend  of  ours, 
whom  you  have  seen  at  our  house,  is  the  only  daughter,  and 
all  that  survives,  of  Mr.  Chambers ;  and  a  very  little  supply 
would  be  of  service  to  her,  for  she  married  very  unfortunate- 
ly, and  has  parted  with  her  husband.  Pray  find  out  this  Mr. 
Pember  (for  that  was  the  gentleman's  name) ;  he  is  an  attor- 
ney, and  lives  at  Bristol.  Find  him  out,  and  acquaint  him  with 
the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and  offer  to  be  the  medium  of 
supply  to  Mrs.  Reynolds,  if  he  chooses  to  make  her  a  present. 

I  detest 


These  scented  rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng, 
Heaves  the  proUd  harlot  her  distended  breast 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song." 

Lines  composed  in  a  Concert  Boom  by  S.  T.  C. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  87 

She  is  in  very  distressed  circumstances.  Mr.  Pember,  attor- 
ney, Bristol.  Mr.  Chambers  lived  in  the  temple ;  Mrs. 
Reynolds,  his  daughter,  was  my  schoolmistress,  and  is  in  the 
room  at  this  present  writing.  Tiiis  last  circumstance  in- 
duced me  to  write  so  soon  again.  I  have  not  further  to  add, 
Our  loves  to  Sara.     Thursday. 

C.  Lamb. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LETTERS     OF     LAMB    TO    COLERIDGE,    CHIEFLY    RELATING    TO    THE    DEATH    OF 
MRS.    LAMB,    AND    MISS    LAMB's   SUBSEQUENT    CONDITION. 

The  autumn  of  1796  found  Lamb  engaged  all  the  morn- 
ing in  task-work  at  the  India  House,  and  all  the  evening  in 
attempting  to  amuse  his  father  by  playing  cribbage  ;  some- 
times snatching  a  few  minutes  for  his  only  pleasure,  writing 
to  Coleridge  ;  while  Miss  Lamb  was  worn  down  to  a  state  of 
extreme  nervous  misery,  by  attention  to  needlework  by  day, 
and  to  her  mother  by  night,  until  the  insanity,  which  had 
been  manifested  more  than  once,  broke  out  into  frenzy, 
which,  on  Thursday,  22nd  of  September,  proved  fatal  to  her 
mother.  The  following  account  of  the  proceedings  on  the 
inquest,  copied  from  the  Times  of  Monday,  26th  September, 
1796,  supplies  the  details  of  this  terrible  calamity,  doubtless 
with  accuracy,  except  that  it  would  seem,  from  Lamb's  en- 
suing letter  to  Coleridge,  that  he,  and  not  the  landlord,  took 
the  knife  from  the  unconscious  hand. 

"  On  Friday  afternoon,  the  coroner  and  a  jury  sat  on  the 
body  of  a  lady  in  the  neighborhood  of  Holborn,  who  died  in 
consequence  of  a  wound  from  her  daughter  the  preceding 
day.  It  appeared,  by  the  evidence  adduced,  that,  while  the 
family  were  preparing  for  dinner,  the  young  lady  seized  a 
case-knife  lying  on  the  table,  and  in  a  menacing  manner 
pursued  a  little  girl,  her  apprentice,  round  the  room.  On 
the  calls  of  her  infirm  mother  to  forbear,  she  renounced  her 
first  object,  and,  with  loud  shrieks,  approached  her  parent. 
The  child,  by  her  cries,  quickly  brought  up  the  landlord  of 
the  house,  but  too  late.  The  dreadful  scene  presented  to 
him  the  mother  lifeless,  pierced  to  the  heart,  on  a  chair,  her 
daughter  yet  wildly  standing  over  her  with  the  fatal  knife, 
and  the  old  man,  her  father,  weeping  by  her  side,  himself 
bleeding  at  the  forehead  from  the  effects  of  a  severe  blow  he 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  39 

received  from  one  of  the  forks  she  had  been  madly  hurling 
about  the  room. 

"  For  a  few  days  prior  to  this,  the  family  had  observed 
some  symptoms  of  insanity  in  her,  which  had  so  much  in- 
creased on  Wednesday  evening,  that  her  brother,  early  the 
next  morning,  went  to  Dr.  Pitcairn,  but  that  gentleman  was 
not  at  home. 

"  It  seems  the  young  lady  had  been  once  before  de- 
ranged. 

"  The  jury,  of  course,  brought  in  their  verdict — Lu- 
nacy." * 

The  following  is  Lamb's  account  of  the  event  to  Cole- 
ridge : — 

My  DEAREST  Friend, 

White,  or  some  of  my  friends,  or  the  public 
papers,  by  this  time  may  have  informed  j^ou  of  the  terrible 
calamities  that  have  fallen  on  our  family.  I  will  only  give 
you  the  outlines  : — My  poor  dear,  dearest  sister,  in  a  fit  of 
insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  own  mother.  I  was  at 
hand  only  time  enough  to  snatch  the  knife  out  of  her  grasp. 
She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse,  from  whence  I  fear  she 
must  be  removed  to  an  hospital.  God  has  preserved  me  my 
senses, — I  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  have  my  judgment 
I  believe,  very  sound.  My  poor  father  was  slightly  wound- 
ed, and  I  am  left  to  take  care  of  him  and  my  aunt.  Mr. 
Norris,  of  the  Blue-coat  School,  has  been  very  very  kind  to 
us,  and  we  have  no  other  friend  ;  but,  thank  God,  I  am  very 
calm  and  composed,  and  able  to  do  the  best  that  remains  to 

*  A  statement  nearly  similar  to  this  will  be  found  in  several  other 
journals  of  the  day,  and  in  the  Annual  Register  for  the  year.  The 
"  True  Briton  "  adds : — "  It  appears  she  had  been  before,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  her  life,  deranged,  from  the  harassing  fatigues  of  too  much  bu- 
siness. As  her  carriage  towards  her  mother  had  always  been  affection- 
ate in  the  extreme,  it  is  believed  her  increased  attachment  to  her, 
as  her  infirmities  called  for  it  by  day  and  by  night,  caused  her  loss 
of  reason  at  this  time.  It  has  been  stated  in  some  of  the  morning 
papers  that  she  has  an  insane  brother  in  confinement ;  but  this  is  with- 
out foundation."  None  of  the  accounts  give  the  names  of  the  sufferers; 
but  in  the  index  to  the  Annual  Register,  the  anonymous  account  is  re- 
ferred to  with  Mrs.  Lamb's  name. 


40  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES   LAMS. 

do.  Write  as  religious  a  letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention 
of  what  is  gone  and  done  with.  With  me  "  the  former 
things  are  passed  away,"  and  I  have  something  more  to  do 
than  to  feel. 

God  Almighty  have  us  v/ell  in  His  keeping. 

C.  Lamb. 

Mention  nothing  of  poetry.  I  have  destroyed  every  ves- 
tige of  past  vanities  of  that  kind.  Do  as  you  please,  but  if 
you  publish,  publish  mine  (I  give  free  leave)  without  name 
or  initial,  and  never  send  me  a  book,  I  charge  you. 

Your  own  judgment  will  convince  you  not  to  take  any 
notice  of  this  yet  to  your  dear  wife.  You  look  after  your 
family, — I  have  my  reason  and  strength  left  to  take  care  of 
mine.  I  charge  you,  don't  think  of  coming  to  see  me — 
write.  I  will  not  see  you  if  you  come.  God  Almighty  love 
you  and  all  of  us. 

C.  Lamb. 

After  the  inquest.  Miss  Lamb  was  placed  in  an  Asylum 
where  she  was,  in  a  short  time,  restored  to  reason.  The  fol- 
lowing is  Lamb's  next  letter. 


TO   BIR.    COLERIDGE. 

My  DEAREST  Friend, 

Your  letter  was  an  inestimable  treasure  to  me.  It 
will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  I  know,  to  know  that  our  prospects 
are  somewhat  brighter.  My  poor  dear,  dearest  sister,  the 
unhappy  and  unconscious  instrument  of  the  Almighty's  judg- 
ments on  our  house,  is  restored  to  her  senses  ;  to  a  dreadful 
sense  and  recollection  of  what  has  past,  awful  to  her  mind 
and  impressive  (as  it  must  be  to  the  end  of  life),  but  tem- 
pered with  religious  resignation  and  the  reasonings  of  a  sound 
judgment,  which,  in  this  early  stage,  knows  how  to  distin- 
guish between  a  deed  committed  in  a  transient  fit  of  frenzy, 
and  the  terrible  guilt  of  a  mother's  murderer.  I  have  seen 
her.  1  found  her,  this  morning,  calm  and  serene ;  far,  very 
far  from  an  indecent  forgetful  serenity  ;  she  has  a  most  af- 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  41 

fectionate  and  tender  concern  for  what  has  happened.  In- 
deed, from  the  beginning,  frightful  and  hopeless  as  her  dis- 
order seemed,  I  had  confidence  enough  in  her  strength  of 
mind,  and  religious  principle,  to  look  forward  to  a  time  when 
even  she  might  recover  tranquillity.  God  be  praised,  Cole- 
ridge, wonderful  as  it  is  to  tell,  I  have  never  once  been 
otherwise  than  collected  and  calm ;  even  on  the  dreadful 
day,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible  scene,  I  preserved  a 
tranquillity  which  by-standers  may  have  construed  into  indif- 
ference— a  tranquillity  not  of  despair.  Is  it  folly  or  sin  in 
me  to  say  that  it  was  a  religious  principle  that  rnost  supported 
me?  I  allow  much  to  other  favorable  circumstances.  I  felt 
that  1  had  something  else  to  do  than  to  regret.  On  that  first 
evening,  my  aunt  was  lying  insensible,  to  all  appearance  like 
one  dying — my  father,  with  his  poor  forehead  plastered 
over,  from  a  wound  he  had  received  from  a  daughter  dearly 
loved  by  him,  and  who  loved  him  no  less  dearly, — my  mo- 
ther a  dead  and  murdered  corpse  in  the  next  room — yet  was 
I  wonderfully  supported.  I  closed  not  my  eyes  in  sleep  that 
night,  but  lay  without  terrors  and  witliout  despair.  I  have 
lost  no  sleep  since.  I  had  been  long  used  not  to  rest  in 
things  of  sense, — had  endeavored  after  a  comprehension  of 
mind,  unsatisfied  with  the  "  ignorant  present  time,"  and  this 
kept  me  up.  I  had  the  whole  weight  of  the  family  thrown 
on  me ;  for  my  brother,  little  disposed  (I  speak  not  without 
tenderness  for  him)  at  any  time  to  take  care  of  old  age  and 
infirmities,  had  now,  with  his  bad  leg,  an  exemption  from 
such  duties,  and  I  was  now  left  alone.  One  little  incident 
may  serve  to  make  you  understand  my  way  of  managing 
my  mind.  Within  a  day  or  two  after  the  fatal  one,  we 
dressed  for  dinner  a  tongue  which  we  had  had  salted  for 
some  weeks  in  the  house.  As  I  sat  down,  a  feeling  like  re- 
morse struck  me  ; — this  tongue  poor  Mary  got  for  me,  and 
I  can  partake  of  it  now,  when  she  is  far  away  !  A  thought 
occurred  and  relieved  me, — if  I  give  into  this  way  of  feeling, 
there  is  not  a  chair,  a  room,  an  object  in  our  roon)s,  that  will 
not  awaken  the  keenest  griefs  ;  I  must  rise  above  such  weak- 
nesses. I  hope  this  was  not  want  of  true  feeling.  I  did  not 
let  this  carry  me,  though,  too  far.  On  the  very  second  day 
(I  date  from  the  day  of  horrors),  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
there  were  a  matter  of  twenty  people,  I  do  think,  supping  in 


42  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

our  room;  they  prevailed  with  me  to  eat  with  them  (for  to 
eat  I  never  refused).  They  were  all  making  merry  in  the 
room  !  Some  had  come  from  friendship,  some  from  busy  cu- 
riosity, and  some  from  interest ;  I  was  going  to  partake  with 
them ;  when  my  recollection  came  that  my  poor  dead  mo- 
ther was  lying  in  the  next  room — the  very  next  room  ; — a 
mother  who,  through  life,  wished  nothing  but  her  children's 
welfare.  Indignation,  the  rage  of  grief,  something  like  re- 
morse, rushed  upon  my  mind.  In  an  agony  of  emotion  I 
found  my  way  mechanically  to  the  adjoining  room,  and  fell 
on  my  knees  by  the  side  of  her  coffin,  asking  forgiveness  of 
heaven,  and  sometimes  of  her,  for  forgetting  her  so  soon. 
Tranquillity  returned,  and  it  was  the  only  violent  emotion 
that  mastered  me,  and  I  think  it  did  me  good. 

I  mention  these  things  because  I  hate  concealment,  and 
love  to  give  a  faithful  journal  of  what  passes  within  me.  Our 
friends  have  been  very  good.  Sam  Le  Grice,  who  was  then 
in  town,  was  with  me  the  three  or  four  first  days,  and  was  a 
brother  to  me,  gave  up  every  hour  of  his  time,  to  the  very 
hurting  of  his  health  and  spirits,  in  constant  attendance  and 
humoring  my  poor  father  ;  talked  with  him,  read  to  him, 
played  at  cribbage  with  him  (for  so  short  is  the  old  man's 
recollection,  that  he  was  playing  at  cards,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened,  while  the  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting  over 
the  way)  !  Samuel  wept  tenderly  when  he  went  away,  for 
his  mother  wrote  him  a  very  severe  letter  on  his  loitering  so 
long  in  town,  and  he  was  forced  to  go.  Mr.  Norris,  of 
Christ's  Hospital,  has  been  as  a  father  to  me — Mrs.  Norris  as 
a  mother ;  though  we  had  few  claims  on  them.  A  gentle- 
man, brother  to  my  godmother,  from  whom  we  never  had 
right  or  reason  to  expect  any  such  assistance,  sent  my  father 
twenty  pounds  ;  and  to  crown  all  these  God's  blessings  to  our 
family  at  such  a  time,  an  old  lady,  a  cousin  of  my  father  and 
aunt's,  a  gentlewoman  of  fortune,  is  to  take  my  aunt  and 
make  her  comfortable  for  the  short  remainder  of  her  days. 
My  aunt  is  recovered,  and  as  well  as  ever,  and  highly  pleased 
at  thoughts  of  going — and  has  generously  given  up  the  in- 
terest of  her  little  money  (which  was  formerly  paid  my  fa- 
ther for  her  board)  wholly  and  solely  to  my  sister's  use. 
Reckoning  this,  we  have.  Daddy  and  I,  for  our  two  selves  and 
an  old  maid-servant  to  look  after  hiu),  when  I  am  out,  which 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  43 

will  be  necessary,  170/.  or  rather  180Z.  a  year,  out  of  which 
we  can  spare  50/.  or  60/.  at  least  for  Mary  while  she  stays 
at  Islington,  where  she  must  and  shall  stay  during  her  fa- 
ther's life,  for  his  and  her  comfort.  I  know  John  will  make 
speeches  about  it,  but  she  shall  not  go  into  an  hospital.  The 
good  lady  of  the  madhouse,  and  her  daughter,  an  elegant, 
sweet-behaved  young  lady,  love  her,  and  are  taken  with  her 
amazingly  ;  and  I  know  from  her  own  mouth  she  loves  them, 
and  longs  to  be  with  them  as  much.  Poor  thing,  they  say 
she  was  but  the  other  morning  saying,  she  knew  she  must  go 
to  Bcthlcm  for  life  ;  that  one  of  her  brothers  would  have  it 
so,  but  the  other  would  wish  it  not,  but  be  obliged  to  go  with 
the  stream  ;  that  she  had  often  as  she  passed  Bethlem  thought 
it  likely  "  here  it  may  be  my  fate  to  end  my  days,"  con- 
scious of  a  certain  flightiness  in  her  poor  head  oftentimes,  and 
mindful  of  more  than  one  severe  illness  of  that  nature  before. 
A  legacy  of  100/.,  which  my  fatlier  will  have  at  Christmas, 
and  this  20/.  I  mentioned  before,  with  what  is  in  the  house, 
will  mucli  more  than  set  us  clear.  If  my  fother,  an  old 
servant-maid,  and  I,  can't  live,  and  live  comfortably,  on 
130/.  or  120/.  a  year,  we  ought  to  burn  by  slow  fires ;  and  I 
almost  would,  that  Mary  might  not  go  into  an  hospital.  Let 
me  not  leave  an  unfavorable  impression  on  your  mind  re- 
specting my  brother.  Since  this  has  happened,  he  has  been 
very  kind  and  brotherly ;  but  I  fear  for  his  mind — he  has 
taken  his  ease  in  the  world,  and  is  not  fit  himself  to  struggle 
with  difficulties,  nor  has  much  accustomed  himself  to  throw 
himself  into  their  way;  and  I  know  his  language  is  already, 
"Charles,  you  must  take  care  of  yourself,  you  must  not 
abridge  yourself  of  a  single  pleasure  you  have  been  used  to," 
&c.,  &c.,  in  that  style  of  talking.  But  you,  a  necessarian, 
can  respect  a  ditlerence  of  mind,  and  love  what  /^  amiable  in 
a  character  not  perfect.  He  has  been  very  good, — but  I  fear 
for  his  mind.  Thank  God,  I  can  unconnect  myself  with  him, 
and  shall  manage  all  my  father's  moneys  in  future  myself,  if 
I  take  charge  of  Daddy,  which  poor  John  has  not  even  hinted 
a  wish,  at  any  future  time  even,  to  share  with  me.  The  lady 
at  this  madhouse  assures  me  that  I  may  dismiss  immediately 
both  doctor  and  apothecary,  retaining  occasionally  a  compos- 
ing draught  or  so  for  a  while  ;  and  there  is  a  less  expensive 
establishment  in  her  house,  where  she  will  only  not  have  a 


44  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

room  and  nurse  to  herself,  for  50/,  or  guineas  a  year — the 
outside  would  be  60Z. — you  know,  by  economy,  how  much 
more  even  I  shall  be  able  to  spare  for  her  comforts.  She 
will,  I  fancy,  if  she  stays,  make  one  of  the  family,  rather 
than  of  the  patients ;  and  the  old  and  young  ladies  I  like  ex- 
ceedingly, and  she  loves  dearly  ;  and  they,  as  the  saying  is, 
take  to  her  very  extraordinarily,  if  it  is  extraordinary  that 
people  who  see  my  sister  should  love  her.  Of  all  the  people 
I  ever  saw  in  the  world,  my  poor  sister  was  most  and  thor- 
oughly devoid  of  the  least  tincture  of  selfishness.  I  will  en- 
large upon  her  qualities,  poor  dear,  dearest  soul,  in  a  future 
letter,  for  my  own  comfort,  for  1  understand  her  thoroughly ; 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  most  trying  situation  that  a  hu- 
man being  can  be  found  in,  she  will  be  found  (1  speak  not 
with  sufficient  humility,  I  fear,  but  humanly  and  foolishly 
speaking),  she  will  be  found,  I  trust,  uniformly  great  and 
amiable.  God  keep  her  in  her  present  mind,  to  whom  be 
thanks  and  praise  for  all  His  dispensations  to  mankind ! 

C.  Lamb. 

These  mentioned  good  fortunes  and  change  of  prospects 
had  almost  brought  my  mind  over  to  the  extreme,  the  veiy 
opposite  to  despair.  1  was  in  danger  of  making  myself  too 
happy.  Your  letter  brought  me  back  to  a  view  of  things 
which  I  had  entertained  from  the  beginning.  I  hope  (for 
Mary  I  can  answer)  but  I  hope  that  /shall  through  life  never 
have  less  recollection,  nor  a  fi\inter  impression,  of  what  has 
happened  than  I  have  now.  It  is  not  a  light  thing,  nor  meant 
by  the  Almighty  to  be  received  lightly.  I  must  be  serious, 
circumspect,  and  deeply  religious  through  life  ;  and  by  such 
means  may  bolh  of  us  escape  madness  in  future  if  it  so  please 
the  Almigl)ty  ! 

Send  me  word  how  it  fares  with  Sam.  I  repeat  it,  your 
letter  was,  and  will  be,  an  inestimable  treasure  to  me.  You 
have  a  view  of  what  my  situation  demands  of  me,  like  my 
own  view,  and  I  trust  a  just  one. 

Coleridge,  continue  to  write  ;  but  do  not  for  ever  offend 
me  by  talking  of  sending  mo  cash.  Sincerely,  and  on  my 
soul,  we  do  not  want  it.     God  love  you  both. 

I  will  write  again  very  soon.     Do  you  write  directly. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  45 

As  Lamb  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  own  calamity, 
he  found  comfort  in  gently  admonishing  his  friend  on  that 
imbecility  of  purpose  which  attended  the  development  of  his 
mighty  genius.  His  next  letter,  commencing  with  this  office 
of  friendship,  soon  reverts  to  the  condition  of  that  sulferer, 
who  was  endeared  to  him  the  iriore  because  otiicrs  shrank 
from  and  forsook  her. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

My  DEAREST  Friend, 

I  grieve  from  my  very  soul  to  observe  you  in  your 
plans  of  life,  veering  about  from  this  hope  to  the  other,  and 
settling  nowhere.  Is  it  an  untoward  fatality  (speaking  hu- 
manly) that  does  this  for  you — a  stubborn,  irresistible  con- 
currence of  events — or  lies  the  fault,  as  I  fear  it  does,  in  your 
own  mind  ?  You  seem  to  be  taking  up  splendid  schemes  of 
fortune  only  to  lay  them  down  again  ;  and  your  fortunes  are 
an  ignis  fatuus  that  has  been  conducting  you,  in  thought,  from 
Lancaster-court,  Strand,  to  somewhere  near  Matlock ;  then 
jumping  across  to  Dr.  Somebody's,  whose  son's  tutor  you 
were  likely  to  be  ;  and,  would  to  God,  the  dancing  demon 
may  conduct  you  at  last,  in  peace  and  comfort,  to  the  "  life 
and  labors  of  a  cottager."  You  see,  from  the  above  awk- 
ward playfulness  of  fancy,  that  my  spirits  are  not  quite  de- 
pressed. I  should  ill  deserve  God's  blessings,  wiiich,  since 
the  late  terrible  event,  have  come  down  in  mercy  upon  us, 
if  I  indulged  regret  or  querulousness.  Mary  continues 
serene  and  cheerful.  I  have  not  by  me  a  little  letter  she 
wrote  to  me  ;  for,  though  I  see  her  almost  every  day,  yet  we 
delight  to  write  to  one  another,  for  we  can  scarce  see  each 
other  but  in  company  with  some  of  the  people  of  the  house. 
I  have  not  the  letter  by  me,  but  will  quote  from  memory  what 
she  wrote  in  it :  "I  have  no  bad  terrifying  dreams.  At  mid- 
night, when  I  happen  to  awake,  the  nurse  sleeping  by  the 
side  of  me,  with  the  noise  of  the  poor  mad  people  around  me, 
1  have  no  fear.  The  spirit  of  my  mother  seems  to  descend 
and  smile  upon  me,  and  bid  me  live  to  enjoy  the  life  and 
reason  which  the  Almighty  has  given  me.  I  shall  see  her 
again  in  heaven ;  she  will  then  understand  me  better.     My 


46  FINAL   ME3I0RIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

grandmother,  too  will  understand  me  better,  and  will  then  say 
no  more,  as  she  used  to  do,  '  Polly,  what  are  those  poor  crazy 
moythered  brains  of  yours  thinking  of  always  V  "  Poor 
Mary  !  my  mother  indeed  never  understood  her  right.  She 
loved  her,  as  she  loved  us  all,  with  a  mother's  love  ;  but  in 
opinion,  in  feeling,  and  sentiment,  and  disposition,  bore  so  dis- 
tant a  resemblance  to  her  daughter,  that  she  never  under- 
stood her  right ;  never  could  believe  how  much  she  loved 
her;  but  met  her  caresses,  her  protestations  of  filial  affection, 
too  frequently  with  coldness  and  repulse.  Still  she  was  a 
good  mother.  God  forbid  I  should  think  of  her  but  most  re- 
spectfully, 7nost  affectionately.  Yet  she  would  always  love 
my  brother  above  Mary,  who  was  not  worthy  of  one-tenth  of 
that  affection  which  Mary  had  a  right  to  claim.  But  it  is 
my  sister's  gratifying  recollection,  that  every  act  of  duty  and 
of  love  she  could  pay,  every  kindness,  (and  1  speak  true, 
when  I  say  to  the  hurting  of  her  health,  and  most  probably 
in  great  part  to  the  derangement  of  her  senses,)  through  a 
long  course  of  infirmities  and  sickness,  she  could  show  her, 
she  ever  did.  I  will,  some  day,  as  I  promised,  enlarge  to 
you  upon  my  sister's  excellences ;  it  will  seem  like  exag- 
geration, but  I  will  do  it.  At  present,  short  letters  suit  my 
state  -of  mind  best.  So  take  my  kindest  wishes  for  your  com- 
fort and  establishment  in  life,  and  for  Sara's  welfare  and 
comfort  with  you.     God  love  you.     God  love  us  all. 

C.  Lamb. 

Two  months,  though  passed  by  Lamb  in  anxiety  and  labor, 
but  cheered  by  Miss  Lamb's  continued  possession  of  reason, 
so  far  restored  the  tone  of  his  mind,  that  his  interest  in  the 
volume  which  had  been  contemplated  to  introduce  his  first 
verses  to  the  world,  in  association  with  those  of  his  friend, 
was  enkindled  anew.  While  cherishing  the  hope  of  reunion 
with  his  sister,  and  painfully  wresting  his  leisure  hours  from 
poetry  and  Coleridge  to  amuse  the  dotage  of  his  father,  he 
watched  over  his  own  returning  sense  of  enjoyment  with  a 
son  of  holy  jealousy,  apprehensive  lest  he  should  forget  too 
soon  the  terrible  visitation  of  Heaven.  At  this  time  he  thus 
writes  : — 


LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE. 


TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

I  have  delayed  writing  thus  long,  not  having  by  mc  my 
copy  of  your  poems,  which  I  had  lent.  I  am  not  satisfied 
with  all  your  intended  omissions.  Why  omit  40,  63,  84  ? 
above  all,  let  me  protest  strongly  against  your  rejecting  the 
"Complaint  of  Ninathoma,"  86.  The  words,  I  acknow- 
ledge, are  Ossian's,  but  you  have  added  to  them  the  "  music 
of  Caril."  If  a  vicarious  substitute  be  wanting,  sacrifice 
(and  'twill  be  a  piece  of  self-denial  too)  the  "Epitaph  on  an 
Infant,"  of  which  its  author  seems  so  proud,  so  tenacious. 
Or,  if  your  heart  be  set  on  perpetuating  the  four-line  wonder, 
I'll  tell  you  what  do;  sell  the  copy  right  of  it  at  once  to  a 
country  statuary  ;  commence  in  this  manner  Death's  prime 
poet-laureate  ;  and  let  your  verses  be  adopted  in  every  vil- 
lage round,  instead  of  those  hitherto  famous  ones : — 

"  Afflictions  sore  long  time  I  bore, 
Pliysicians  were  in  vain."* 

I  have  seen  your  last  very  beautiful  poem  in  the  Monthly 
Magazine  :  write  thus,  and  you  most  generally  have  written 
thus,  and  I  shall  never  quarrel  with  you  about  simplicity. 
With  regard  to  my  lines — 

"  Laugh  all  that  weep,"  &c., 

I  would  willingly  sacrifice  them  ;  but  my  portion  of  the  vol- 
ume is  so  ridiculously  little,  that,  in  honest  truth,  I  can't 
spare  them :  as  things  are,  I  have  very  slight  pretensions  to 
participate  in  the  title-page.  White's  book  is  at  length  re- 
viewed in  the  Monthly  ;  was  it  your  doing,  or  Dyer's,  to 
whom  I  sent  him — or,  rather,  do  you  not  write  in  the  Critical  ? 

*  This  epitaph,  which,  notwithstanding  Lamb's  gentle  banter,  occu- 
pied an  entire  page  in  the  book,  is  curious — "  a  miracle  instead  of  wit " 
— for  it  is  a  common-place  of  Coleridge,  who,  investing  ordinary  things 
with  a  dreamy  splendor,  or  weighing  them  down  with  accumulated 
thought,  has  rarely  if  ever  written  a  stanza  so  smoothly  vapid — so  de- 
void of  merit  or  offence — (unless  it  be  an  offence  to  make  fade  do  duty 
as  a  verb  active)  as  the  following  : — 

"  Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow /aJr, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care ; 
The  opening  bud  to  Heaven  convcy'd. 
And  bade  it  blossom  there." 


48  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

for  I  observed,  in  an  article  of  this  month's,  a  line  quoted  out 
of  that  sonnet  on  Mrs.  Siddons, 

"  With  eager  wondering,  and  perturb'd  delight." 

And  a  line  from  that  sonnet  would  not  readily  have  occurred 
to  a  stranger.  That  sonnet,  Coleridge,  brings  afresh  to  my 
mind  the  time  when  you  wrote  those  on  Bowles,  Priestly, 
Burke  ; — it  was  two  Christmases  ago,  and  in  that  nice  little 
smoky  room  at  the  Salutation,  which  is  ever  now  continually 
presenting  itself  to  my  recollection,  with  all  its  associate 
train  of  pipes,  tobacco,  egg-hot,  welsh-rabbits,  metaphysics, 
and  poetry. — Are  we  never  to  meet  again  ?  How  differently 
I  am  circumstanced  now  !  I  have  never  met  with  any  one 
— never  shall  meet  with  any  one — who  could  or  can  compen- 
sate me  for  the  loss  of  your  society.  I  have  no  one  to  talk 
all  these  matters  about  lo ;  1  lack  friends,  I  lack  books 
to  supply  their  absence :  but  these  complaints  ill  become 
me.  Let  me  compare  my  present  situation,  prospects, 
and  state  of  mind,  with  what  they  were  but  two  months  back 
— but  two  months  !  O  my  friend,  I  am  in  danger  of  for- 
getting the  awful  lessons  then  presented  to  me  !  Remind  me 
of  them  ;  remind  me  of  my  duty  !  Talk  seriously  with  me 
when  you  do  write!  1  thank  you,  from  my  heart  I  thank 
you,  for  your  solicitude  about  my  sister.  She  is  quite 
well,  but  must  not,  I  fear,  come  to  live  with  us  yet  a  good 
while.  In  the  first  place,  because,  at  present,  it  would  hurt 
her,  and  hurt  my  father,  for  them  to  be  together :  secondly, 
from  a  regard  to  the  world's  good  report,  for,  I  fear,  tongues 
will  be  busy  whenever  that  event  takes  place.  Some  have 
hinted,  one  man  has  pressed  it  on  me,  that  she  should  be  in 
perpetual  confinement ;  what  she  has  done  to  deserve,  or  where 
is  the  necessity  of  such  hardship,  I  see  not ;  do  you  '?  I  am 
starving  at  the  India  house, — near  seven  o'clock  without  my 
dinner,  and  so  it  has  been,  and  will  be,  almost  all  the  week. 
I  get  home  at  night  o'erweariod,  quite  faint,  and  then  to  cards 
with  my  father,  who  will  not  let  me  enjoy  a  meal  in  peace ; 
but  I  must  conform  to  my  situation,  and  I  hope  I  am,  for  the 
most  part,  not  unthankful. 

I  am  got  home  at  last,  and,  after  repeated  games  at 
cribbage,  have  got  my  Father's  leave  to  write  awhile ;  with 
difficulty  got  it,  for  when  I  expostulated  about  playing  any 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  49 

more,  he  aptly  replied,  "  If  you  won't  play  with  me,  you 
might  as  well  not  come  home  at  all."  The  argument  was 
unanswerable,  and  I  set  to  afresh.  I  told  you  I  do  not  ap- 
prove of  your  omissions,  neither  do  I  quite  coincide  with  you 
in  your  arrangements.  I  have  not  time  to  point  out  a  better, 
and  I  suppose  some  self-associations  of  your  ovvn  liave  deter- 
mined their  place  as  they  now  stand.  Your  beginning,  in- 
deed, with  the  "Joan  of  Arc  "  lines  I  coincide  entirely  with, 
I  love  a  splendid  outset — a  magnificent  portico, — and  the  dia- 
pason is  grand.  When  I  read  the  "  Religious  Musings," 
I  think  how  poor,  how  unelevated,  unoriginal,  my  blank 
verse  is — "  Laugh  all  that  weep,"  especially  where  the  sub- 
ject demanded  a  grandeur  of  conception ;  and  I  ask  what 
business  they  have  among  yours  ?  but  friendship  covereth  a 
multitude  of  defects.  1  want  some  loppings  made  in  the 
"  Chatterton  ;"  it  wants  but  a  little  to  make  it  rank  among 
the  finest  irregular  lyrics  I  ever  read.  Have  you  time  and 
inclination  to- go  to  work  upon  it — or  is  it  too  late — or  do  you 
think  it  needs  none  ?  Don't  reject  those  verses  in  one  of 
your  Watchmen,  "  Dear  native  brook,"  &c. ;  nor  I  think 
those  last  lines  you  sent  me,  in  wiiich  "  all  efibrtless"  is 
without  doubt  to  be  preferred  to  "inactive."  If  I  am  writing 
more  than  ordinarily  dully,  'tis  that  I  am  stupefied  with  a  tooth- 
ache. Hang  it !  do  not  omit  48,  52,  and  53 :  what  you  do 
retain,  though,  call  sonnets,  for  heaven's  sake,  and  not  effu- 
sions. Spite  of  your  ingenious  anticipations  of  ridicule  in 
your  preface,  the  five  last  lines  of  50  are  too  good  to  be  lost, 
the  rest  is  not  much  worth.  My  tooth  becomes  importunate 
— I  must  finish.  Pray,  pray,  write  to  me:  if  you  knew 
with  what  an  anxiety  of  joy  1  open  such  a  long  packet  as 
you  last  sent  me,  you  would  not  grudge  giving  a  few  minutes 
now  and  then  to  this  intercourse  (the  only  intercourse  I  fear 
we  two  shall  ever  have) — this  conversation  with  your  friend 
— such  I  boast  to  be  called.  God  love  you  and  yours  !  Write 
me  when  you  move,  lest  I  direct  wrong.  Has  Sara  no  poems 
to  publish  ?  Those  lines,  129,  are  probably  too  light  for  the 
volume  where  the  "  Religious  Musings"  are,  but  I  remem- 
ber some  very  beautiful  lines,  addressed  by  somebody  at 
Bristol  to  somebody  in  London.  God  bless  you  once  more. 
Thursday -night.  C.  Lamb. 


50  FINAL    BIEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

In  another  letter,  about  this  time  (December,  1796), 
Lamb  transmitted  to  Coleridge  two  poems  for  the  volume — 
one  a  copy  of  verses  "  To  a  Young  Lady  going  out  to  India," 
which  were  not  inserted,  and  are  not  worthy  of  preservation  ; 
the  other,  entitled,  "  The  Tomb  of  Douglas,"  which  was 
inserted,  and  which  he  chiefly  valued  as  a  memorial  of  his 
impression  of  Mrs.  Siddons'  acting  in  Lady  Randolph.  The 
following  passage  closes  the  sheet. 

At  length  I  have  done  with  verse-making ;  not  that  I 
relish  other  people's  poetry  less ;  theirs  comes  from  'em 
without  effort,  mine  is  the  difficult  operation  of  a  brain  scanty 
of  ideas,  made  more  difficult  by  disuse.  I  have  been  read- 
ing "  The  Task"  with  fresh  delight.  I  am  glad  you  love 
Cowper :  I  could  forgive  a  man  for  not  enjoying  Milton,  but 
I  would  not  call  that  man  my  friend  who  should  be  offended 
with  the  "divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper."  Write  to  me.  God 
love  you  and  yours.  C.  L. 

An  addition  to  Lamb's  household  cares  is  thus  mentioned 
in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Coleridge. 

In  truth,  Coleridge,  I  am  perplexed,  and  at  times  almost 
cast  down.  I  am  beset  with  perplexities.  The  old  hag  of  a 
wealthy  relation,  who  took  my  aunt  off  our  hands  in  the  be- 
ginning of  trouble,  has  found  out  that  she  is  "  indolent  and 
mulish,"  I  quote  her  own  words,  and  that  her  attachment  to 
us  is  so  strong  that  she  can  never  be  happy  apart.  The  lady, 
with  delicate  irony,  remarks,  that  if  I  am  not  an  hypocrite, 
I  shall  rejoice  to  receive  her  again;  and  that  it  will  be  a 
means  of  making  me  more  fond  of  home  to  have  so  dear  a 
friend  to  come  home  to !  The  fact  is,  she  is  jealous  of  my 
aunt's  bestowing  any  kind  recollections  on  us,  while  she  en- 
joys the  patronage  of  her  roof.  She  says  she  finds  it  incon- 
sistent with  her  own  "  ease  and  tranquillity,"  to  keep  her 
any  longer ;  and,  in  fine,  summons  me  to  fetch  her  home. 
Now,  much  as  I  should  rejoice  to  transplant  the  poor  old 
creature  from  the  chilling  air  of  such  patronage,  yet  I  know 
how  straitened  we  are  already,  how  unable  already  to  answer 
any  demand  which  sickness  or  any  extraordinary  expense 
may  create.     1  know  this,  and  all  unused  as  I  am  to  struggle 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  51 

with  perplexities,  I  am  somewhat  nonplussed,  to  say  no 
worse.  This  prevents  me  from  a  thorough  relish  of  what 
Lloyd's  kindness  and  yours  have  furnished  mc  with.  I 
thank  you  though  from  my  heart,  and  feel  myself  not  quite 
alone  in  the  earth. 

The  following  long  letter,  bearing  date  on  the  outside,  7th 
January,  1797,  is  addressed  to  Mr.  Coleridge  at  Stowey, 
near  Bridgewater,  whither  he  had  removed  from  Bristol,  to 
enjoy  the  society  and  protection  of  his  friend  Mr.  Poole.  The 
original  is  a  curious  specimen  of  clear  compressed  penman- 
ship ;  being  contained  in  three  sides  of  a  sheet  of  foolscap. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Sunday  morning. — You  cannot  surely  mean  to  degrade 
the  Joan  of  Ai'c  into  a  pot-girl.  You  are  not  going,  I  hope, 
to  annex  to  that  most  splendid  ornament  of  Soulhey's  poem 
all  his  cock-and-a-bull  story  of  Joan,  the  publican's  daughter 
of  Neufchatel,  with  the  lamentable  episode  of  a  wagoner, 
his  wife,  and  six  children.  The  texture  will  be  most  lamen- 
tably disproportionate.  The  first  forty  or  fifty  lines  of  these 
addenda  are,  no  doubt,  in  their  way,  admirable,  too ;  but 
many  would  prefer  the  Joan  of  Southey. 

"  On  mightiest  deeds  to  br6od 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  fast ;  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance  listened  to  the  wind  ;" 

"  They  wondered  at  me,  who  had  known  me  once 
A  cheerful  careless  damsel ;" 

"  The  eye, 
That  of  the  circling  throng  and  visible  world 
Unseeing,  saw  the  shapes  of  holy  phantasy  ;" 

I  see  nothing  in  your  description  of  the  maid  equal  to  those. 
There  is  a  fine  originality  certainly  in  those  lines — 

"  For  she  had  lived  in  this  bad  world 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead  ;" 


52  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

but  your  "  fierce  vivacity"  is  a  faint  copy  of  the  "  fierce  and 
terrible  benevolence"  of  Southey ;  added  to  this,  that  it 
would  look  like  rivalship  in  you,  and  extort  a  comparison 
with  Southey, — I  think  to  your  disadvantage.  And  the  lines 
considered  in  themselves  as  an  addition  to  what  you  had  be- 
fore written,  (strains  of  a  far  higher  mood,)  are  but  such  as 
Madame  Fancy  loves  in  some  of  her  more  familiar  moods, 
at  such  times  as  she  has  met  Noll  Goldsmith,  and  walked 
and  talked  with  him,  calling  him  "old  acquaintance." 
Southey  certainly  has  no  pretensions  to  vie  with  you  in  the 
sublime  of  poetry  ;  but  he  tells  a  plain  tale  better  than  you. 
I  will  enumerate  some  woeful  blemishes,  some  of  them  sad 
deviations  from  that  simplicity  which  was  your  aim.  "  Hailed 
who  might  be  near"  (the  "  canvas-coverture  moving,"  by 
the  bye,  is  laughable) ;  "  a  woman  and  six  children,"  (by 
the  way, — why  not  nine  children  ?  It  would  have  been  just 
half  as  pathetic  again):  "statues  of  sleep  they  seemed"  : 
"  frost-mangled  wretch"  :  "  green  putridity"  :  "  hailed  him 
immortal"  (rather  ludicrous  again)  :  "  voiced  a  sad  and 
simple  tale"  (abominable  !)  :  "  improvendered"  :  "  such  his 
tale"  :  "  Ah  !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was  suffered" 
(a  most  insiijferable  line)  :  "  amazement  of  affright"  :  "  the 
hot  sore  brain  attributes  its  own  hues  of  ghastliness  and  tor- 
ture" (what  shocking  confusion  of  ideas)  ! 

In  these  delineations  of  common  and  natural  feelings,  in 
the  familiar  walks  of  poetry,  you  seem  to  resemble  Montau- 
ban  dancing  with  Roubignc's  tenants,  '■'■much  of  his  native 
loftiness  remained  in  the  execution." 

1  was  reading  your  "  Religious  Musings"  the  other  day, 
and  sincerely  think  it  the  noblest  poem  in  the  language,  next 
after  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  even  that  was  not  made  the 
vehicle  of  such  grand  truths.  "  There  is  one  mind,"  &c., 
down  to  "  Almighty's  throne,"  are  without  a  rival  in  the 
whole  compass  of  my  poetical  reading. 

"  Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze, 
Views  all  creation." 

I  wish  I  could  have  written  those  lines.  I  rejoice  that  I  am 
able  to  relish  them.  The  loftier  walks  of  Pindus  are  your 
proper  region.  There  you  have  no  compeer  in  modern  times, 
Leave  the  lowlands,  unenvied,  in  possession  of  such  men  as 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  53 

Cowper  and  Southey.     Thus  am  I  pouring  balsam  into  the 
wounds  I  may  have  been  inflicting  on  my  poor  friend's  vanity. 
In  you  notice  of  Southey's  new  volume,  you  omit  to  men- 
tion the  most  pleasing  of  all,  the  "  Miniature" — 

"  There  were  those 
Who  formed  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  thee, 
Young  Robert !" 

"  Spirit  of  Spenser ! — was  the  wanderer  wrong  V 

Fairfax  I  have  been  in  quest  of  a  long  time.  Johnson, 
in  his  "  Life  of  Waller,"  gives  a  most  delicious  specimen  of 
him,  and  adds,  in  the  true  manner  of  that  delicate  critic,  as 
well  as  amiable  man,  "  It  may  be  pronounced  that  this  old 
version  will  not  be  much  read  after  the  elegant  translation 
of  my  friend,  Mr.  Hoole."  I  endeavored — I  wished  to  gain 
some  idea  of  Tasso  from  tliis,  Mr.  Hoole,  the  great  boast  and 
ornament  of  the  India  House,  but  soon  desisted.  I  found  him 
more  vapid  than  smallest  small  beer  "  sun-vinegared."  Your 
"  Dream,"  down  to  that  exquisite  line — 

"  I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures," 

is  a  most  happy  resemblance  of  Chaucer.  The  remainder  is 
so  so.  The  best  line,  I  think,  is,  "  He  belongeth,  I  believe, 
to  the  witch  Melancholy."  By  the  way,  when  will  our  vol- 
ume come  out  ?  Don't  delay  it  till  you  have  written  a  new 
Joan  of  Arc.  Send  what  you  please  by  me,  in  any  way 
you  choose,  single  or  double.  The  India  Company  is  better 
adapted  to  answer  the  cost  than  the  generality  of  my  friend's 
correspondents — such  poor  and  honest  dogs  as  John  Thel- 
wall,  particularly.  I  cannot  say  I  know  Colson,  at  least  in- 
timately ;  I  once  supped  with  him  and  Allen :  I  think  his 
manners  very  pleasing.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
Lloyd,  for  he  may  by  chance  come  to  see  this  letter,  and  that 
thought  puts  a  restraint  on  me.  I  cannot  think  what  subject 
would  suit  your  epic  genius ;  some  philosophical  subject,  I 
conjecture,  in  which  shall  be  blended  the  sublime  of  poetry 
and  of  science.  Your  proposed  "  Hymns"  will  be  a  fit 
preparatory  study  wherewith  "  to  discipline  your  young  no- 
viciate soul."  1  grow  dull ;  I'll  go  walk  myself  out  of  my 
dullness. 


54  FINAL    MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

Sunday  night. — You  and  Sara  are  very  good  to  think  so 
kindly  and  so  favoraby  of  poor  Mary ;  I  would  to  God  all 
did  so  too.  But  I  very  much  fear  she  must  not  think  of 
coming  home  in  my  father's  lifetime.  It  is  very  hard  upon 
her  ;  but  our  circumstances  are  peculiar,  and  we  must  sub- 
mit to  them.  God  be  praised  she  is  so  well  as  she  is.  She 
bears  her  situation  as  one  who  has  no  I'ight  to  complain.  My 
poor  old  aunt,  whom  you  have  seen,  the  kindest,  goodest 
creature  to  me  when  I  was  at  school  ;  she  used  to  toddle 
there  to  bring  me  good  things,  when  I,  school-boy  like,  only 
despised  her  for  it,  and  used  to  be  ashamed  to  see  her  come 
and  sit  herself  down  on  the  old  coal-hole  steps  as  you  went 
into  the  old  grammar-school,  and  open  her  apron,  and  bring 
out  her  basin,  with  some  nice  thing  she  had  caused  to  be 
saved  for  me  ;  the  good  old  creature  is  now  lying  on  her 
death-bed.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  on  her  deplorable  state. 
To  the  shock  she  received  on  that  our  evil  day,  from  which 
she  never  completely  recovered,  I  impute  her  illness.  She 
says,  poor  thing,  she  is  glad  she  has  come  home  to  die  with 
me.     I  was  always  her  favorite  : 

"  No  after  friendship  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days  ; 
Nor  e'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove. 
As  when  it  first  began  to  love." 

Lloyd  has  kindly  left  me,  for  a  keep-sake,  "  John  Wool- 
man."  You  have  read  it,  he  says,  and  like  it.  Will  you 
excuse  one  short  extract  ?  I  think  it  could  not  have  escaped 
you.  "Small  treasure  to  a  resigned  mind  is  sufficient.  How 
happy  is  it  to  be  content  with  a  little,  to  live  in  humility,  and 
feel  that  in    us  which    breathes  out  this  language — Abba, 

Father !" I  am  almost  ashamed  to  patch  up  a  letter  in 

this  miscellaneous  sort — but  I  please  myself  in  the  thought, 
that  any  thing  from  me  will  be  acceptable  to  you.  I  am 
rather  impatient,  childishly  so,  to  see  our  names  affixed  to 
the  same  common  volume.  Send  me  two  when  it  does  come 
out ;  two  will  be  enough — or  indeed  one — but  two  better.  I 
have  a  dim  recollection  that,  when  in  town,  you  were  talk- 
ing of  the  Origin  of  Evil  as  a  most  prolific  subject  for  a  long 
poem  ; — why  not  adopt  it,  Coleridge  ? — there  would  be  room 
for  imagination.     Or  the  description  (from  a  Vision  or  Dream, 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  55 

suppose)  of  a  Utopia  in  one  of  the  planets  (the  moon  for  in- 
stance). Or  a  Five  Days'  Dream,  which  shall  illustrate,  in 
sensible  imagery,  Hartley's  five  Motives  for  Conduct: — 1. 
Sensation ;  2.  Imagination  ;  3.  Ambition  ;  4.  Sympathy  ;  5. 
Theopathy  : — First.  Banquets,  music,  &c.,  effeminacy, — 
and  their  insufficiency.  Second.  "  Beds  of  hyacinths  and 
roses,  where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes  ;"  "  Fortunate  Isles  ;" 
"  The  pagan  Elysium,"  &c.  ;  poetical  pictures  ;  antiquity 
as  pleasing  to  the  flmcy ; — their  emptiness ;  madness,  &c. 
Third.  Warriors,  Poets  ;  some  famous,  yet  more  forgotten ; 
their  fame  or  oblivion  now  alike  inditTerent ;  pride,  vanity, 
(fee.  Fourth.  All  manner  of  pitiable  stories,  in  Spenser-like 
verse  ;  love  ;  friendship,  relationship,  &c.  Fifth.  Hermits  ; 
Christ  and  his  apostles;  martyrs;  heaven,  &c.  And  an 
imagination  like  yours,  from  these  scanty  hints,  may  expand 
into  a  thousand  great  ideas,  if  indeed  you  at  all  comprehend 
my  scheme,  which  I  scarce  do  myself. 

Monday  morn. — "  A  London  letter — Nine-pence  half- 
penny !"  Look  you,  master  poet,  I  have  remorse  as  well  as 
another  man,  and  my  bowels  can  sound  upon  occasion.  But 
I  must  put  you  to  this  charge,  for  I  cannot  keep  back  my  pro- 
test, however  inefTectual,  against  the  annexing  your  latter 
lines  to  those  former — this  putting  of  new  wine  into  old  bot- 
tles. This  my  duty  done,  I  will  cease  from  writing  till  you 
invent  some  more  reasonable  mode  of  conveyance.  Well  may 
the  "  ragged  followers  of  the  Nine  !"  set  up  for  floccinauci- 
what-do-you-call-'em-ists !  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  in  their 
splendid  visions  of  Utopias  in  America,  they  protest  against 
the  admission  of  those  ?/e//o7/>-complexioned,  cop^^er-colored, 
white-YiveveA  gentlemen,  wlio  never  prove  themselves  their 
friends !  Don't  you  think  your  verses  on  a  "  Young  Ass" 
too  trivial  a  companion  for  the  "  Religious  Musings?" — 
"scoundrel  monarchs,"  alter  that;  and  the  "  Man  of  Ross" 
is  scarce  admirable,  as  it  now  stands,  curtailed  of  its  fairer 
half:  reclaim  its  property  from  the  "  Chatterton,"  which  it 
does  but  encumber,  and  it  will  be  a  rich  little  poem.  I  hope 
you  expunge  great  part  of  the  old  notes  in  the  new  edition  : 
that,  in  particular,  most  barefaced,  unfounded,  impudent  as- 
sertion, that  Rogers  is  indebted  for  his  story  to  Locke  and  a 
poem  by  Bruce  !  I  have  read  the  letter.  I  scarce  think  you 
have.     Scarce  any   thing  is  common   to  them  both.     The 


56  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory"  was  sorely  hurt,  Dyer 

says,  by  the  accusation  of  unoriginality  ;  he  never  saw  the 
poem.  I  long  to  read  your  Poem  on  Burns — I  retain  so  in- 
distinct a  memory  of  it.  In  what  shape,  and  how  does  it 
come  into  public  ?  Do  you  leave  off  writing  poetry  till  you 
finish  your  Hymns  ?  I  suppose  you  print,  now,  all  you  have 
got  by  you.  You  have  scarce  enough  unprinted  to  make 
a  second  volume  with  Lloyd  ?  What  is  become  of  Cow- 
per  ?  Lloyd  told  me  of  some  verses  on  his  mother.  If 
you  have  them  by  you,  pray  send  'em  me.  I  do  so  love  him  ! 
Never  mind  their  merit.  May  be  /  may  like  'em,  as  your 
taste  and  mine  do  not  always  exactly  identify. 

Yours,  C.  Lamb. 

Soon  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  death  released  the  father 
from  his  state  of  imbecility,  and  the  son  from  his  wearisome 
duties.  With  his  life,  the  annuity  he  had  derived  from  the 
old  bencher  he  had  served  so  faithfully,  ceased  ;  while  the 
aunt  continued  to  linger  still  with  Lamb  in  his  cheerless  lodg- 
ing. His  sister  still  remained  in  [confinement  in  the  asylum 
to  which  she  had  been  consigned  on  her  mother's  death — per- 
fectly sensible  and  calm, — and  he  was  passionately  desirous 
of  obtaining  her  liberty.  The  surviving  members  of  the 
family,  especially  his  brother  John,  who  enjoyed  a  fair  in- 
come in  the  South  Sea  House,  opposed  her  discharge ;  and 
painful  doubts  were  suggested  by  the  authorities  of  the  parish 
where  the  terrible  occurrence  happened,  whether  they  were 
not  bound  to  institute  proceedings,  which  must  have  placed 
her  for  life  at  the  disposition  of  the  Crown,  especially  as  no 
medical  assurance  could  be  given  against  the  probable  recur- 
rence of  dangerous  frenzy.  But  Charles  came  to  her  deliv- 
erance ;  he  satisfied  all  the  parties  who  had  power  to  oppose 
her  release,  by  his  solemn  engagement  that  he  would  take 
her  under  his  care  for  life  ;  and  he  kept  his  word.  Whether 
any  communication  with  the  Home  Seci'etary  occurred  be- 
fore  her  release,  I  have  been  unable  to  ascertain  ;  it  was  the 
impression  of  Mr.  Lloyd,  from  whom  my  own  knowledge  of 
the  circumstances,  which  the  letters  do  not  ascertain,  was  de- 
rived, that  a  communication  took  place,  on  which  a  similar 
pledge  was  given  ;  at  all  events,  the  result  was,  timt  she  left 
the  asylum  and  took  up  her  abode  for  life  with  her  brother 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  57 

Charles.  For  her  sake,  at  the  same  time,  he  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  love  and  marriage  ;  and  with  an  income  of 
scarcely  more  than  lOOA  a  year,  derived  from  his  clerkship, 
aided  for  a  little  while  by  the  old  aunt's  small  annuity,  set 
out  on  the  journey  of  life  at  twenty-two  years  of  age,  cheer- 
fully, with  his  beloved  companion,  endeared  to  him  the  more 
by  her  strange  calamity,  and  the  constant  apprehension  of  a 
recurrence  of  the  malady  which  had  caused  it ! 

Tlie  illness  of  the  poor  old  aunt  brought  on  the  confirma- 
tion of  Lamb's  fears  respecting  his  sister's  malady.  After 
lingering  a  short  time,  she  died  ;  but  before  this.  Miss  Lamb's 
incessant  attendance  upon  her  produced  a  recurrence  of  in- 
sanity ;  Lamb  was  obliged  to  place  her  under  medical  care  ; 
and,  left  alone,  wrote  the  following  short  and  miserable  letter  : 


to  bir.  coleridge. 

My  dear  Coleridge, 

I  don't  know  why  I  write,  except  from  the  propen- 
sity misery  has  to  tell  her  griefs.  Hetty  died  on  Friday 
night  about  eleven  o'clock,  after  her  long  illness ;  Mary,  in 
consequence  of  fatigue  and  anxiety,  is  fallen  ill  again,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  remove  her  yesterday.  I  am  left  alone  in  a 
house  with  nothing  but  Hetty's  dead  body  to  keep  me  com- 
pany. To-morrow  I  bury  lier,  and  then  I  shall  be  quite 
alone,  with  nothing  but  a  cat,  to  remind  me  that  the  house  has 
been  full  of  living  beings  like  myself.  My  heart  is  quite 
sunk,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  relief.  Mary  will 
get  better  again,  but  her  constantly  being  liable  to  such  re- 
lapses is  dreadful  ;  nor  is  it  the  least  of  our  evils  that  her 
case  and  all  our  story  is  so  well  known  around  us.  We  are 
in  a  manner  marked.  Excuse  my  troubling  you,  but  I  have 
nobody  by  me  to  speak  to  me.  I  slept  out  last  night,  not  be- 
ing able  to  endure  the  change  and  the  stillness.  But  I  did 
not  sleep  well,  and  I  must  come  back  to  my  own  bed.  I  am 
going  to  try  and  get  a  friend  to  come  and  be  with  me  to- 
morrow. I  am  completely  shipwrecked.  My  head  is  quite 
bad.  I  almost  wish  that  Mary  were  dead. — God  bless  you. 
Love  to  Sara  and  Hartley.  C.  Lamb. 

3* 


CHAPTER  III. 


LETTERS     TO    COLERIDGE     AND     MANNING    IN     LAMB's    FIRST     YEARS    OP    LIFE 
WITH  HIS  SISTER 1797  TO   1800. 


The  anxieties  of  Lamb's  new  position  were  assuaged 
during  the  spring  of  1797,  by  frequent  communications  with 
Coleridge  respecting  the  anticipated  volume,  and  by  some 
additions  to  his  own  share  in  its  pages.  He  was  also  cheered 
by  the  company  of  Lloyd,  who,  having  resided  for  a  few 
months  with  Coleridge,  at  Stovvey,  came  to  London  in  some 
perplexity  as  to  his  future  course.  Of  tiiis  visit  Lamb 
speaks  in  the  following  letter,  probably  written  in  March. 
It  contains  some  verses  expressive  of  his  delight  at  Lloyd's 
visit,  which,  although  afterwards  inserted  in  the  volume,  are 
so  well  fitted  to  their  frame-work  of  prose,  and  so  indicative 
of  the  feelings  of  the  writer  at  this  crisis  of  his  life,  that  I 
may  be  excused  for  presenting  them  with  the  context. 


to  mr.  coleridge. 
Dear  Col, 

You  have  learned  by  this  time,  with  surprise,  no 
doubt,  that  Lloyd  is  with  me  in  town.  The  emotions  I  felt 
on  his  coming  so  unlooked  for,  are  not  ill  expressed  in  what 
follows,  and  what,  if  you  do  not  object  to  them  as  too  personal, 
and  to  the  world  obscure,  or  otherwise  wanting  in  worth,  I 
should  wish  to  make  a  part  of  your  little  volume.  I  shall  be 
sorry  if  that  volume  comes  out,  as  it  necessarily  must  do, 
unless  you  print  those  very  school-boyish  verses  I  sent  you 
on  not  getting  leave  to  come  down  to  Bristol  last  summer.  I 
shall  be  sorry  that  I  have  addressed  you  in  nothing  which 
can  appear  in  our  joint  volume  ;  so  frequently,  so  habitually, 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  59 

as  you  dwell  in  my  thoughts,  'tis  some  wonder  those  thoughts 
came  never  in  contact  with  a  poetical  mood.  But  you 
dwell  in  my  heart  of  hearts  ;  I  love  you  in  all  the  naked 
honesty  of  prose.  God  bless  you,  and  all  your  little  domestic 
circle — my  tenderest  remembrances  to  your  beloved  Sara, 
and  a  smile  and  a  kiss  from  me  to  our  dear,  dear  little 
Hartley.  The  verses  I  refer  to  above,  slightly  amended,  I 
have  sent  (forgetting  to  ask  your  leave,  tho'  indeed  I  gave 
them  only  your  initials),  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  where 
they  may  possibly  appear  next  month,  and  where  I  hope  to 
recognize  your  poem  on  Burns. 


TO  CHARLES  LLOYD,  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR. 

Alone,  obscure,  without  a  friend, 

A  cheerless  solitary  thing, 
Why  seeks  my  Lloyd  the  stranger  out? 

What  offering  can  the  stranger  bring. 

Of  social  themes,  home-bred  delights, 
That  him  in  aught  compensate  may 

For  Stowey's  pleasant  winter  nights, 
For  loves  and  friendships  far  away. 

In  brief  oblivion  to  forego 

Friends,  such  as  thine,  so  justly  dear. 

And  be  awhile  with  me  content 
To  stay,  a  kindly  loiterer,  here  ? 

For  this  a  gleam  of  random  joy 

Hath  flush'd  my  unaccustom'd  cheek  . 

And,  with  an  o'ercharg'd  bursting  heart, 
I  feel  the  thanks,  I  cannot  speak. 

O  !  sweet  are  all  the  Muse's  lays, 

And  sweet  the  charm  of  matin  bird — 

'Twas  long  since  these  estranged  ears 
The  sweeter  voice  of  friend  had  heard. 

The  voice  hath  spoke  :  the  pleasant  sounds, 

In  memory's  ear,  in  after  time 
Shall  live,  to  sometimes  rouse  a  tear. 

And  sometimes  prompt  an  honest  rhyme. 

For  when  the  transient  charm  is  fled. 

And  when  the  little  week  is  o'er. 
To  cheerless,  friendless  solitude 

When  I  return,  as  heretofore — 


60  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

Long,  long,  within  my  aching  heart 
The  grateful  sense  shall  clierish'd  be  ; 

I'll  think  less  meanly  of  myself, 

That  Lloyd  will  sometimes  think  on  me. 

O  Coleridge,  would  to  God  you  were  in  London  with  us, 
or  we  two  at  Stowey  with  you  all.  Lloyd  takes  up  his 
abode  at  the  Bull  and  Mouth  Inn  ;  the  Cat  and  Salutation 
would  have  had  a  charm  more  forcible  for  me.  O  nodes 
ccsnceque  Deum !  Anglice — Welsh  rabbits,  punch,  and 
poesy.  Should  you  be  induced  to  publish  those  very  school- 
boy-ish  verses,  print  them  as  they  will  occur,  if  at  all,  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine  ;  yet  I  should  feel  ashamed  that  to  you  I 
wrote  nothing  better  :  but  they  are  too  personal,  and  almost 
trifling  and  obscure  withal.  Some  lines  of  mine  to  Cowper 
were  in  last  Monthly  Magazine  ;  they  have  not  body  of 
thought  enough  to  plead  for  the  retaining  of  them.  My 
sister's  kind  love  to  you  all. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  next  letter  to  Coleridge,  apparently  the  following 
April,  begins  with  a  transcript  of  Lamb's  Poem,  entitled  "  A 
Vision  of  R-epentance,"  which  was  inserted  in  the  Addenda 
to  the  volume,  and  is  preserved  among  his  collected  poems, 
and  thus  proceeds : 

The  above  you  will  please  to  print  immediately  before 
the  blank  verse  fragments.  Tell  me  if  you  like  it.  I  fear 
the  latter  half  is  unequal  to  the  former,  in  parts  of  which  I 
think  you  will  discover  a  delicacy  of  pencilling  not  quite  un- 
Spenser-like.  The  latter  half  aims  at  the  measure,  but  has 
failed  to  attain  the  jwelry  of  Milton  in  his  "  Comus,"  and  of 
Fletcher  in  that  exquisite  thing  ycleped  the  "  Faithful 
Shepherdess,"  where  they  both  u-e  eight-syllable  lines.  But 
this  latter  half  was  finished  in  great  haste,  and  as  a  task, 
not  from  that  impulse  whicli  affects  the  name  of  inspiration. 

By  the  way,  I  have  lit  upon  Fairfax's  "  Godfrey  of  Bul- 
len,"  for  half-a-crown.     Rejoice  with  me. 

Poor  dear  Lloyd  !  I  liad  a  letter  from  him  yesterday  ; 
his  state  of  mind  is  truly  alarming.  He  has,  by  his  own 
confession,  kept  a  letter  of  mine  unopened  three  weeks,  afraid, 
he  says,  to  open  it,  lest  I  should  speak  upbraidingly  to  him  j 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  61 

and  yet  this  very  letter  of  mine  was  in  answer  to  one,  wherein 
he  informed  me  that  an  alarminir  illness  had  alone  prevented 
him  from  writing.  You  will  pray  with  me,  I  know,  for  his 
recovery,  for  surely,  Coleridge,  an  exquisiteness  of  feeling 
like  this  must  border  on  derangement.  But  1  love  him  more 
and  more,  and  will  not  give  up  the  hope  of  his  speedy  re- 
covery, as  he  tells  me  he   is  under  Dr.  Darwin's   regimen.* 

God  bless  us  all,  and  shield  us  from  insanity,  which  is 
"the  sorest  malady  of  all." 

My  kind  love  to  your  wife  and  child. 

C.  Lamb. 

Pray  write  soon. 

As  summer  advanced,  Lamb  discerned  a  hope  of  com- 
pensation for  the  disappointment  of  last  year,  by  a  visit  to 
Coleridge,  and  thus  expressed  his  wishes. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

I  discern  a  possibility  of  my  paying  you  a  visit  next  week. 
May  I,  can  I,  shall  I,  come  as  soon  ?  Have  you  room  for  me, 
leisure  for  me,  and  are  you  all  pretty  well  ?  Tell  me  all 
this  honestly — immediately.  And  by  what  rfa?/-coach  could 
I  come  soonest  and  nearest  to  Stowey  ?  A  iew  months  hence 
may  suit  you  better ;  certainly  me,  as  well.  If  so,  say  so. 
1  long,  I  yearn,  with  all  the  longings  of  a  child  do  I  desire 
to  see  you — to  come  among  you — to  see  the  young  philoso- 
pher, to  thank  Sara  for  her  last  year's  invitation  in  person — 
to  read  your  tragedy — to  read  over  together  our  little  book — 
to  breathe  fresh  air — to  revive  in  me  vivid  images  of  "  Salu- 
tation scenery."  There  is  a  sort  of  sacrilege  in  my  letting 
such   ideas   slip  out  of  my  mind   and   memory.     Still  that 

*  Poor  Charles  Lloyd  !  These  apprehensions  were  sadly  realized. 
Delusions  of  the  most  melancholy  kind  thickened  over  his  latter  days — 
yet  left  his  admirable  intellect  free  for  the  finest  processes  of  severe  rea- 
soning. At  a  time  when,  like  Cowper,  he  believed  himself  the  especial 
subject  of  Divine  wrath,  he  could  bear  his  part  in  the  most  subtle  disqui- 
sition on  questions  of  religion,  morals,  and  poetry,  with  the  nicest  accu- 
racy of  perception  and  the  most  exemplary  candor  ;  and,  after  an  argu- 
ment of  hours,  revert,  with  a  faint  smile,  to  his  own  despair ! 


62         FINAL  MEMORIALS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

R remaineth — a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Hope,  when  she 

would  lean  towards  Stowey.  Here  I  will  leave  off,  for  I  dis- 
like to  fill  up  this  paper,  which  involves  a  question  so  con- 
nected with  my  heart  and  soul,  with  meaner  matter  or  sub- 
jects to  me  less  interesting.  I  can  talk,  as  I  can  think, 
nothing  else.      Thursday. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  visit  was  enjoyed  ;  the  book  was  published  ;  and 
Lamb  was  once  more  left  to  the  daily  labors  of  the  India 
House  and  the  unceasing  anxieties  of  his  home.  His  feel- 
ings, on  the  recurrence  of  the  season,  which  had,  last  year, 
been  darkened  by  his  terrible  calamity,  will  be  understood 
from  the  first  of  two  pieces  of  blank  verse,  which  fill  the  two 
first  sheets  of  a  letter  to  Coleridge,  written  under  an  appre- 
hension of  some  neglect  on  the  part  of  his  friend,  which  had 
its  cause  in  no  estrangement  of  Coleridge's  aff*ections,  but  in 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  imaginative  philosopher's  fortune  and 
the  constancy  of  his  day-dreamings. 


WRITTEN  A  TWELVEMONTH  AFTER  THE  EVENTS. 
[Friday  next,  Coleridge,  is  the  day  on  which  my  ynother  died.] 

Alas  !  how  am  I  chang'd  !  where  be  the  tears. 

The  sobs,  and  forc'd  suspensions  of  the  breath. 

And  all  the  dull  desertions  of  the  heart 

Wiih  which  I  hung  o'er  my  dear  mother's  corse? 

Where  be  the  blest  subsidings  of  the  storm 

Within  ;  the  sweet  resignedness  of  hope 

Drawn  heavenward,  and  strength  of  filial  love. 

In  which  I  bow'd  nie  to  my  Father's  will  1 

My  God  and  my  Redeemer,  keep  not  thou 

My  heart  in  brute  and  sensual  thanklessness 

Seal'd  up,  oblivious  ever  of  that  dear  grace, 

And  health  restored  to  my  long-loved  friend. 

Long  lov'd,  and  worthy  known  !     Thou  didst  not  keep 

Her  soul  in  death.     O  keep  not  now,  my  Lord, 

Thy  servants  in  far  worse — in  spiritual  death 

And  darkness — blacker  than  those  feared  shadows 

Of  the  valley  all  must  tread.     Lend  us  thy  balms, 

Thou  dear  physician  of  the  sin-sick  soul, 

And  heal  our  cleansed  bosoms  of  the  wounds 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  63 

With  which  the  world  hath  pierc'd  us  thro'  and  thro'  ! 
Give  us  new  flesh,  new  birth  ;  elect  of  iicaven 
May  we  become,  in  thine  election  sure 
Contnin'd,  and  to  our  purpose  steadfast  drawn — 
Our  soul's  salvation. 

Thou  and  I,  dear  friend. 
With  filial  recognition  sweet,  shall  know 
One  day  the  face  of  our  dear  mother  in  heaven, 
And  her  remember'd  looks  of  love  shall  greet 
With  answering  looks  of  love,  her  placid  smiles 
Meet  with  a  smile  as  placid,  and  her  hand 
With  drops  of  fondness  wet,  nor  fear  repulse.* 

Be  witness  for  me.  Lord,  I  do  not  ask 
Those  days  of  vanity  to  return  again, 
(Nor  fitting  me  to  ask,  nor  thee  to  give,) 
Vain  loves,  and  "  wanderings  with  a  fair-hair'd  maid  ;" 
(Child  of  the  dust  as  I  am,)  who  so  long 
My  foolish  heart  steep'd  in  idolatry, 
And  creature-loves.     Forgive  it,  O  my  Maker ! 
If  in  a  mood  of  grief,  I  sin  almost 
In  sometimes  brooding  on  the  days  long  past, 
(And  from  the  grave  of  time  wishing  them  back,) 
Days  of  a  mother's  fondness  to  her  child — 
Her  little  one  I     Oh,  where  be  now  those  sports 
And  infant  play-games?     Where  the  joyous  troops 
Of  children,  and  the  haunts  I  did  so  love  ? 

0  my  companions !     O  ye  loved  names 

Of  friend,  or  playmate  dear,  gone  are  ye  now. 
Gone  divers  ways  ;  to  honor  and  credit  some  ; 
And  some,  I  fear,  to  ignominy  and  shame  !t 

1  only  am  left,  with  unavailing  grief 

Am  left,  with  a  few  friends,  and  one  above 
The  rest  found  faithful  in  a  length  of  years. 
Contented  as  I  may  to  bear  me  on, 
r  the  not  unpeaceful  evening  of  a  day 
Made  black  by  morning  storms. 

The  following  1  wrote  when  I  had  returned  from  C. 
Lloyd,  leaving  him  behind  at  Burton,  with  Southey.  To 
understand  some  of  it,  you  must  remember  that  at  that  time 
he  was  very  much  perplexed  in  mind. 

*  [Note  in  the  margin  of  MS.]  "  This  is  almost  literal  from  a  let- 
ter of  my  sister's — less  than  a  year  ago." 

t  [Note  in  the  margin  of  MS.]  Alluding  to  some  of  my  old  play- 
fellows being,  literally,  *  on  the  town,'  and  some  otherwise  wretched." 


64  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

A  stranger,  and  alone,  I  past  those  scenes 

We  past  so  late  together  ;  and  my  heart 

Felt  something  like  desertion,  as  I  look'd 

Around  me,  and  the  pleasant  voice  of  friend 

Was  absent,  and  the  cordial  look  was  there 

No  more  to  smile  on  me.     I  thought  on  Lloyd — 

All  he  had  been  to  me  !     And  now  I  go 

Again  to  mingle  with  a  world  impure  ; 

With  men  who  make  a  mock  of  holy  things. 

Mistaken,  and  on  man's  best  hope  think  scorn. 

The  world  does  much  to  warp  the  heart  of  man  ; 

And  I  may  sometimes  join  its  idiot  laugh  : 

Of  this  I  now  complain  not.     Deal  with  me. 

Omniscient  Father,  as  thou  judgest  best. 

And  in  Ihy  season  soften  thou  my  heart. 

I  pray  not  for  myself:   I  pray  for  him 

Whose  soul  is  sore  perplexed.     Shine  thou  on  him. 

Father  of  lights  !  and  in  the  difficult  paths 

Make  plain  his  way  before  him  :  his  own  thoughts 

May  he  not  think — his  own  ends  not  pursue — 

So  shall  he  best  perform  thy  will  on  earth. 

Greatest  and  Best,  Thy  will  be  ever  ours  !  i 

The  former  of  these  poems  I  wrote  with  unusual  celerity 
t'other  morning  at  office.  I  expect  you  to  like  it  better  than 
any  thing  of  mine  ;  Lloyd  does,  and  I  do  myself. 

You  use  Lloyd  very  ill,  never  writing  to  him.  I  tell 
you  again  that  his  is  not  a  mind  with  which  you  should  play 
tricks.     He  deserves  more  tenderness  from  you. 

For  myself,  I  must  spoil  a  little  passage  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  to  adapt  it  to  my  feelings  : — 

"  I  am  prouder 
That  I  was  once  your  friend,  tho'  now  forgot, 
Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me." 

If  you  don't  write  to  me  now,  as  I  told  Lloyd,  I  shall  get 
angry,  and  call  you  liard  names — Manchineel  and  I  don't 
know  what  else.  1  wish  you  would  send  me  my  great-coat. 
The  snow  and  the  rain  season  is  at  hand,  and  1  have  but  a 
wretclicd  old  coat,  once  my  father's,  to  keep  'em  off,  and 
that  is  transitory. 

"  When  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  ways  grow  foul  and  blood  gets  cold," 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  65 

I  shall  remember  where  I  left  my  coat.     Meet  emblem  wilt 
thou  be,  old  Winter,  of  a  friend's  neglect — cold,  cold,  cold  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


At  this  time,  the  only  literary  man  whom  Lamb  knew  in 
London  was  George  Dyer,  who  had  been  noted  as  an  accom- 
plished scholar,  in  Lamb's  early  childiiood,  at  Christ's  FIos- 
pital.  For  him  Lamb  cherished  all  the  esteem  that  his  guile- 
less simplicity  of  character  and  gentleness  of  nature  could 
inspire  ;  in  these  qualities  the  friends  were  akhi  ;  but  no  two 
men  could  be  more  opposite  than  they  were  to  each  other,  in 
intellectual  qualifications  and  tastes — Lamb,  in  all  things 
original,  and  rejoicing  in  the  quaint,  the  slrange,  the  extrava- 
gant ;  Dyer,  the  quintessence  of  learned  commonplace ; 
Lamb  wildly  catching  the  most  evanescent  spirit  of  wit  and 
poetry;  Dyer,  the  wondering  disciple  of  their  established 
forms.  Dyer  officiated  as  a  revering  High  Priest  at  the  Altar 
of  the  Muses — such  as  they  were  in  the  staid,  antiquated  trim 
of  the  closing  years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  before  they 
formed  sentimental  attachments  in  Germany,  or  flirted  with 
revolutionary  France,  or  renewed  their  youth  by  drinking  the 
Spirit  of  the  Lakes.  Lamb  esteemed  and  loved  him  so  well, 
that  he  felt  himself  entitled  to  make  sport  with  his  peculiari- 
ties ;  but  it  was  as  Fielding  might  sport  with  his  own  idea  of 
Parson  Adams ;  or  Goldsmith  with  his  Dr.  Primrose.  The 
following  passage  occurs  in  a  letter  of  November,  1798,  ad- 
dressed— 

TO    MR.    SOUTHEY. 

I  showed  my  "  Whch,"  and  "  Dying  Lover,"  to  Dyer 
last  night,  but  George  could  not  comprehend  how  that  could 
be  poetry  which  did  not  go  upon  ten  feet,  as  George  and  his 
predecessors  had  taught  it  to  do  ;  so  George  read  me  some 
lectures  on  the  distinguishing  qualities  of  the  Ode,  the  Epi- 
gram, and  the  Epic,  and  went  home  to  illustrate  his  doctrine, 
by  correcting  a  proof  sheet  of  his  own  Lyrics.  George 
writes  odes  where  the  rhymes,  like  fasliionable  man  and 
wife,  keep  a  comfortable  distance  of  six  or  eight  lines  apart, 
and  calls  that  "  observing  the  laws  of  verse."     George  tells 


66  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

you,  before  he  recites,  that  you  must  listen  with  great  atten- 
tion, or  you'll  miss  the  rhymes.  T  did  so,  and  found  them 
pretty  exact.  George,  speaking  of  the  dead  Ossian,  ex- 
claimeth,  "  Dark  are  the  poet's  eyes."  I  humbly  repre- 
sented to  him  that  his  own  eyes  were  dark,  and  many  a  liv- 
ing bard's  besides,  and  suggested  to  him,  "  Clos'd  are  the  po- 
et's eyes."  But  that  would  not  do.  I  found  there  was  an 
antithesis  between  the  darkness  of  his  eyes  and  the  splendor 
of  his  genius;   and  I  acquiesced. 

The  following  passage  on  the  same  subject  occurs  in  a 
letter  about  the  same  time,  addressed 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Now  I  am  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  I  must  announce  to 
you,  who,  doubtless,  in  your  remote  part  of  the  island,  have 
not  heard  tidings  of  so  great  a  blessing,  that  George  Dyer 
hath  prepared  two  ponderous  volumes  full  of  poetry  and  criti- 
cism. They  impend  over  the  town,  and  are  threatened  to 
fall  in  the  winter.  The  first  volume  contains  every  sort  of 
poetry,  except  personal  satire,  which  George,  in  his  truly 
original  prospectus,  renounceth  forever,  whimsically  foisting 
the  intention  in  between  the  price  of  his  book  and  the  pro- 
posed number  of  subscribers.  (If  I  can,  I  will  get  you  a 
copy  of  his  handbill.)  He  has  tried  his  verse  in  every  spe- 
cies besides — the  Spenserian,  Thomsonian,  Masonic  and  Ak- 
ensidish  more  especially.  The  second  volume  is  all  criti- 
cism ;  wherein  he  demonstrates  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of 
the  literary  world,  in  a  way  that  must  silence  all  reply  for 
ever,  that  the  Pastoral  was  introduced  by  Theocritus  and 
polished  by  Virgil  and  Pope — that  Gray  and  Mason  (who 
always  hunt  in  couples  in  George's  brain)  have  a  good  deal 
of  poetical  fire  and  true  lyric  genius — that  Cowley  was  ru- 
ined by  excess  of  wit  (a  warning  to  all  moderns) — that  Charles 
Lloyd,  Charles  Lamb,  and  William  Wordsworth,  in  later 
days,  have  struck  the  true  chords  of  poesy.  O  George, 
George  !  with  a  head  uniformly  wrong,  and  a  heart  uni- 
formly right,  that  I  had  power  and  might  equal  to  my  wish- 
es ;  then  would  I  call  the  gentry  of  thy  native  island,  and 
tlicy  should  come  in  troops,  flocking  at  the  sound  of  tliy  pros- 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  67 

pectus-trumpet,  and  crowding  who  should  be  first  to  stand 
on  thy  list  of  subscribers!  I  can  only  put  twelve  shillings 
into  thy  pocket  (which,  I  will  answer  for  them,  will  not  stick 
there  long),  out  of  a  pocket  almost  as  bare  as  thine.  Is  it 
not  a  pity  so  much  fine  writing  should  be  wasted  ?  But,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  began  to  scent  tliat  I  was  getting  into  that 
sort  of  style  which  Longinus  and  Dionysius  Halicarnassus 
fitly  call  "  the  affected.'' 

In  1799,  Coleridge  seemed  to  attain  a  settled  home  by 
accepting  an  invitation  to  become  the  minister  of  a  Unitarian 
congregation  at  Shrewsbury ;  a  hope  of  short  duration. 
The  following  letter  was  addressed  by  Lamb  to  him  at  this 
time,  as"S.  T.  Coleridge" — as  if  the  Mr.  were  dropped 
and  the  "Reverend"  not  quite  adopted — "at  the  Reverend 
A.  Rowe's  Shrewsbury,  Shropshire."  The  tables  are 
turned  here  ; — Lamb,  instead  of  accusing  Coleridge  of  neg- 
lect, takes  the  charge  to  himself  in  deep  humility  of  spirit, 
and  regards  the  effect  of  Miss  Lamb's  renewed  illnesses  on 
his  mind  as  inducing  indifference,  with  an  affecting  self- 
jealously. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

You  have  writ  me  many  kind  letters,  and  I  have  answered 
none  of  them.  I  don't  deserve  your  attentions.  An  unnatu- 
ral indifference  has  been  creeping  on  me  since  my  last  mis- 
fortune, or  I  should  have  seized  the  first  opening  of  a  cor- 
respondence witli  ijon.  To  you  I  owe  much,  under  God.  In 
my  brief  acquaintance  with  you  in  London,  your  conversa- 
tions won  me  to  the  better  cause,  and  rescued  me  from  the 
polluting  spirit  of  the  world.  I  might  have  been  a  worthless 
ciiaracter  without  you  ;  as  it  is,  I  do  possess  a  certain  im- 
provable portion  of  devotional  feelings,  tho'  when  I  view 
myself  in  the  light  of  divine  truth,  and  not  according  to  the 
common  measures  of  human  judgment,  I  am  altogether 
corrupt  and  sinful.     This  is  no  cant.     I  am  very  sincere. 

Tl)ese  last  afflictions,  Coleridge,  have  failed  to  soften  and 
bend  my  will.  They  found  me  unprepared.  My  former 
calamities  produced  in  me  a  spirit  of  humility  and  a  spirit  of 
prayer.     I   thought  they  had  sufficiently    disciplined    me ; 


68  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

but  the  event  ought  to  humble  me  ;  if  God's  judgments  now 
fail  to  take  away  from  me  the  heart  of  stone,  what  more 
grievous  trials  ought  I  not  to  expect !  I  have  been  very 
querulous,  impatient  under  the  rod — full  of  little  jealousies 
and  heart  burnings. — I  had  well  nigh  quarreled  with  Charles 
Lloyd — and  for  no  other  reason,  I  believe,  than  that  the  good 
creature  did  all  he  could  to  make  me  happy.  The  truth  is, 
I  thought  he  tried  to  force  my  mind  from  its  natural  and 
proper  bent ;  he  continually  wished  me  to  be  from  home,  he 
was  drawing  me  from  the  consideration  of  my  poor  dear 
Mary's  situation,  rather  than  assisting  me  to  gain  a  proper 
view  of  it  with  religious  consolations'.  I  wanted  to  be  left 
to  the  tendency  of  my  own  mind,  in  a  solitary  state,  which, 
in  times  past,  I  knew  had  lead  to  a  quietness  and  a  patient 
bearing  of  the  yoke.  He  was  hurt  that  1  was  not  more  con- 
stantly with  him,  but  he  was  living  with  White,  a  man  to 
whom  I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  impart  my  dearest 
feelings,  tho'  from  long  habits  of  friendliness,  and  many  a 
social  and  good  quality,  1  loved  him  very  much.  I  met 
company  there  sometimes — indiscriminate  company.  Any 
society  almost,  when  I  am  in  affliction,  is  sorely  painful  to 
me.  I  seem  to  breathe  more  freely,  to  think  more  collect- 
edly, to  feel  more  properly  and  calmly,  when  alone.  All 
these  things  the  good  creature  did  with  the  kindest  intentions 
in  the  world,  but  they  produced  in  me  nothing  but  soreness 
and  discontent.  I  became,  as  he  complained,  "jaundiced" 
towards  him  .  .  .  but  he  has  forgiven  me — and  his  smile,  I 
hope,  will  draw  all  such  humors  from  me.  I  am  recover- 
ing, God  be  praised  for  it,  a  healthiness  of  mind,  something 
like  calmness — but  I  want  moi'e  religion — I  am  jealous  of 
human  helps  and  leaning  places.  1  rejoice  in  your  good 
fortunes.  May  God  at  last  settle  you  ! — You  have  had  many 
and  painful  trials ;  humanly  speaking,  they  are  going  to 
end  ;  but  we  should  rather  pray  that  discipline   may   attend 

us  thro'  the  whole   of  our  lives A   careless  and   a 

dissolute  spirit  has  advanced  upon  me  with  large  strides — 
pray  God  that  my  present  nfilictions  may  be  sanctified  to  me  ! 
Mary  is  recovering ;  but  I  see  no  oj)cning  yet  of  a  situation 
for  us  or  her  ;  your  invitation  went  to  my  vejy  heart,  but 
you  have  a  power  of  exciting  interest,  leading  all  hearts 
captive,  too  forcible  to  admit  of  Mary's  being  witli  you.     I 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  69 


consider  her  as  perpetually  on  the  hrink  of  madness.  I 
think,  you  would  almost  make  her  dance  within  an  inch  of 
the  precipice  ;  she  must  be  with  duller  fancies,  and  cooler 
intellects.  In  answer  to  your  su<jgcstions  of  occupation  for 
me,  I  must  say  that  1  do  not  think  my  capacity  altogether 
suited  for  disquisitions  of  that  kind.  ...  I  have  read  little, 
I  have  a  very  weak  memory,  and  retain  little  of  what  I  read  ; 
am  unused  to  compositions  in  which  any  methodizing  is  re- 
quired ;  but  1  thaidv  you  sincerely  for  the  hint,  and  shall  re- 
ceive it  as  far  as  I  am  able,  that  is,  endeavor  to  engage  my 
mind  in  some  constant  and  innocent  pursuit.  I  know  my 
capacities  better  than  you  do. 

Accept  my  kindest  love,   and  believe  me  yours,   as  ever. 

C.     Li. 

The  prospect  of  obtaining  a  residence  more  suited  to  the 
peculiar  exigencies  of  his  situation  than  that  which  he  then 
occupied  at  Pentonville,  gave  Lamb  comfort,  which  he  ex- 
pressed in  the  following  short  letter : — 


to  mr.  manning. 

Dear  Manning, 

I  feel  myself  unable  to  thank  you  sufficiently  for 
your  kind  letter.  It  was  doubly  acceptable  to  me,  both  for 
the  choice  poetry  and  the  kind  honest  prose  which  it  con- 
tained. It  was  just  such  a  letter  as  I  should  have  expected 
from  Manning. 

I  am  in  much  better  spirits  than  when  I  wrote  last.  I 
have  had  a  very  eligible  offer  to  lodge  with  a  friend  in  town. 
He  will  have  rooms  to  let  at  midsummer,  by  which  time  I 
hope  my  sister  will  be  well  enough  to  join  me.  It  is  a  great 
object  to  me  to  live  in  town,  where  we  shall  be  much  more 
private,  and  to  quit  a  house  and  a  neighborhood  where  poor 
Mary's  disorder,  so  frequently  recurring,  has  made  us  a  sort 
of  marked  people.  We  can  be  nowhere  private  except  in 
the  midst  of  London.  We  shall  be  in  a  family  whom  we 
visit  very  frequently ;  only  my  landlord  and  I  have  not  yet 
come  to  a  conclusion.  He  has  a  partner  to  consult.  I  am 
still  on  the  tremble,  for  I  do  not  know  where  we  could  go 


70  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

into  lodgings  that  would  not  be,  in  many  respects,  highly- 
exceptionable.  Only  God  send  Mary  well  again,  and  I  hope 
all  will  be  wlII  !  The  prospect,  such  as  it  is,  has  made  me 
quite  happy.  I  have  just  time  to  tell  you  of  it,  as  I  know  it 
will  give  you  pleasure. — Farewell. 

C.  Lamb. 

This  hope  was  accomplished,  as  appears  from  the  follow- 
ing letter : — 

to  mr.  coleridge. 

Dear  Coleridge, 

Soon   after  1  wrote  to  you  last,  an  offer  was  made 

me  by  G (you  must  remember  him,  at  Christ's, — you 

saw  him,  slightly,  one  day  with  Thomson  at  our  house — 
to  come  and  lodge  with  him,  at  his  house  in  Southamp- 
ton Buildings,  Chancery-lane.  This  was  a  very  comfort- 
able offer  to  me,  the  rooms  being  at  a  reasonable  rent, 
and  including  the  use  of  an  old  servant,  besides  being  infi- 
nitely preferable  to  ordinary  lodgings  in  our  case,  as  you 
must  perceive.  As  G knew  all  our  story,  and  the  per- 
petual liability  to  a  recurrence  in  my  sister's  disorder,  pro- 
bably to  the  end  of  her  life,  I  certainly  think  the  offer  very 
generous  and  very  friendly.  I  liave  got  three  rooms  (in- 
cluding servant)  under  34Z.  a-year.  Here  I  soon  found  my- 
self at  home;  and  here,  in  six  weeks  after,  Mary  was  well 
enougli  to  join  me.  So  we  are  once  more  settled.  I  am 
afraid  we  are  not  placed  out  of  the  reach  of  future  interrup- 
tions. But  I  am  determined  to  take  what  snatches  of  plea- 
sure we  can  between  the  acts  of  our  distressful  drama  .  .  . 
I  have  passed  two  days  at  Oxford,  on  a  visit  which   I  have 

long  put  off,  to  G 's  family.     The  sight  of  the  Bodleian 

Library,  and,  above  all,  a  fine  bust  of  Bishop  Taylor,  at  All 
Souls',  were  particularly  gratifying  tome;  unluckily,  it  was 
not  a  family  where  I  could  take  Mary  with  me,  and  I  am 
afraid  there  is  something  of  dislionesty  in  any  pleasure  I 
take  without  her.  She  never  goes  any  where.  I  do  not 
know  what  I  can  add  to  this  letter.  1  hope  you  are  better 
by  this  time ;  and  I  desire  to  be  affectionately  remembered 
to  Sara  and  Hartley. 

I  expected  before  this  to  have  had  tidings  of  another  little 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  71 

philosopher.     Lloyd's  wife   is  on  the  point  of  favoring  tlie 
world. 

Have  you  seen  the  new  edition  of  Burns  ?  his  posthu- 
mous works  and  letters  ?  I  have  only  been  able  to  procure 
the  first  volume,  which  contains  his  life — very  confusedly 
and  badly  written,  and  interspersed  with  dull  pathological 
and  medical  dicussions.  it  is  written  by  a  Dr.  Currie.  Do 
you  know  the  well-meaning  doctor  ?  Alas,  ne  sutor  ultra 
crcpidum  ! 

I  hope  to  hear  again  from  you  very  soon.  Godwin  is 
gone  to  Ireland  on  a  visit  to  Grattan.  Before  he  went  I 
passed  nmch  time  with  him,  and  he  has  showed  me  particu- 
lar attention  :  N.  B.  A  thing  I  much  like.  Your  books  are 
all  safe  ;  only  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  fetch  away 
your  last  batch,  which  I  understand  are  at  Johnson's,  the 
bookseller,  who  has  got  quite  as  much  room,  and  will  take 
as  much  care  of  them  as  myself — and  you  can  send  for  them 
immediately  from  him. 

I  wish  you  would  advert  to  a  letter  1  sent  you  at  Grass- 
mere  about  Christabel,  and  comply  with  my  request  con- 
tained therein. 

Love  to  all  friends  round  Skiddaw. 

C.  Lamb. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


MISCELLANEOUS  LETTERS  TO  MANNING,  COLERIDGE,  AND  WORDSWORTH,  FROM 
1800  TO  1805. 


Ii^  would  seem  from  the  letters  of  1800,  that  the  natural 
determination  of  Lamb  "  to  take  what  pleasure  he  could  be- 
tween the  acts  of  his  distressful  drama,"  had  led  him  into  a 
wider  circle  of  companionship,  and  had  prompted  sallies  of 
wilder  and  broader  mirth,  which  afterwards  softened  into  deli- " 
cacy,  retaining  all  its  whim.  The  following  passage,  which 
concludes  a  letter  to  Manning,  else  occupied  with  merely 
personal  details,  proves  that  his  appi'ehensions  for  the  diminu- 
tion of  his  reverence  for  sacred  things  were  not  wholly  un- 
founded;  while,  amidst  its  grotesque  expressions,  maybe 
discerned  the  repugnance  to  the  philosophical  infidelity  of 
some  of  his  companions  he  retained  through  life.  The  pas- 
sage, may,  perhaps,  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  desperate  com- 
promise between  a  wild  gaiety  and  religious  impressions  ob- 
scured but  not  effaced ;  and  intimating  his  disapprobation  of 
infidelity,  with  a  melancholy  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness 
seriously  to  express  it. 


TO    MR.    MANNING. 

Coleridge  inquires  after  you  pretty  often.  I  wish  to  be 
the  pander  to  bring  you  together  again  once  before  I  die. 
When  we  die,  you  and  I  must  part ;  the  sheep,  you  know, 
take  the  right  hand,  and  the  goats  the  left.  Stripped  of  its 
allegory,  you  must  know,  the  sheep  are  /,  and  the  Apostles 
and  the  Martyrs,  and  the  Popes,  and  Bishop  Taylor  and 
Bishop  Horscly,  and  Coleridge,  &c.,  &c. ;  the  goats  are  the 
Atheists  and  the  Adulterers,  and  dumb  dogs,  and  Godwin 


LETTERS    TO    MANNING.  73 

and   M g,  and  that  Thyestaen  crew — yaw  !   liow  my 

saintship  sickens  at  the  idea  ! 

You  shall  have  my  play  and  the  FalstalF  letters  in  a  day 
or  two.     I  will  write  to  Lloyd  by  this  day's  post. 

God  bless  you,  Manning.  Take  my  trifling  as  trijling — 
and  believe  me  seriously  and  deeply  your  well-wisher  and 
friend, 

C.  Lamb. 

In  the  following  letter,  Lamb's  fantastic  spirits  find  scope 
freely,  though  in  all  kindness,  in  the  peculiarities  of  the 
learned  and  good  George  Dyer. 


to  mr.  manning. 

Dear  Manning, 

You  needed  not  imagine  any  apology  necessary.  Your 
fine  hare  and  fine  birds  (which  just  now  are  dangling  by  our 
kitchen  blaze),  discourse  most  eloquent  music  in  your  justi- 
fication. You  just  nicked  my  palate.  For,  with  all  due  de- 
corum and  leave  may  it  be  spoken,  my  worship  hath  taken 
physic  to-day,  and  being  low  and  puling,  requireth  to  be  pam- 
pered. Fob  !  how  beautiful  and  strong  those  buttered  onions 
come  to  my  nose.  For  you  must  know  we  extract  a  divine 
spirit  of  gravy  from  those  materials,  which,  duly  compounded 
with  a  consistence  of  bread  and  cream  (y'clept  bread-sauce), 
each  to  each,  giving  double  grace,  do  mutually  illustrate  and 
set  off  (as  skillful  gold  foils  to  rare  jewels)  your  partridge, 
pheasant,  woodcock,  snipe,  teal,  widgeon,  and  the  other  lesser 
daughters  of  the  ark.  Mrs.  Friendship,  struggling  with  my 
carnal  and  fleshly  prudence  (which  suggests  that  a  bird  or 
man  is  the  proper  allotment  in  such  cases),  yearneth  some- 
times to  have  thee  here  to  pick  a  wing  or  so.  I  question  if 
your  Norfolk  sauces  match  our  London  cookery. 

George  Dyer  has  introduced  me  to  the  table  of  an  agree- 
able old  gentleman.  Dr.  A ,  who  gives  hot  legs  of  mutton 

and  grape  pies  at  his  sylvan  lodge  at  Isleworth ;  where,  in 
the  middle  of  a  street,  he  has  shot  up  a  wall  most  preposter- 
ously before  his  small  dwelling,  which,  with  the  circumstance 
of  his  taking  seven  panes  of  glass  out  of  bedroom  windows 
4 


74  FINAL    BIEMORIALS    OF  'CHARLES    LAMB.//"    '  .j.*'-^ 

(for  air),  causeth  his  neighbors  to  speculate  strangely  on  the 
state  of  the  good  man's  pericranicks.  Plainly,  he  lives  un- 
der the  reputation  of  being  deranged.  George  does  not  mind 
this  circumstance ;  he  rather  likes  him  the  better  for  it.  The 
Doctor,  in  his  pursuits,  joins  agricultural  to  poetical  science, 
and  has  set  George's  brains  mad  about  the  old  Scotch  writers, 
Barbour,  Douglas's  ^neid,  Blind  Harry,  &c.  We  returned 
home  in  a  return  postchaise  (having  dined  with  the  Doctor), 
and  George  kept  wondering  and  wondering,  for  eight  or  nine 
turnpike  miles,  what  was  the  name,  and  striving  to  recollect 
the  name  of  a  poet  anterior  to  Barbour.  I  begged  to  know 
what  was  remaining  of  his  works.  "  There  is  nothing  extant 
of  his  works,  Sir,  but  by  all  accounts,  he  seems  to  have  been 
a  fine  genius !"  This  fine  genius,  without  any  thing  to  show 
for  it,  or  any  title  beyond  George's  courtesy,  without  even  a 
name  ;  and  Barbour,  and  Douglas,  and  Blind  Harry,  now 
are  predominant  sounds  in  George's  pia  mater,  and  their  buz- 
zings  exclude  politics,  criticism,  and  algebra — the  late  lords 
of  that  illustrious  lumber-room.  Mark,  he  has  never  read 
any  of  these  bucks,  but  is  impatient  till  he  reads  them  all  at 
the  Doctor's  suggestion.  Poor  Dyer  !  his  friends  should  be 
careful  what  speeches  they  let  fall  into  such  inflammable 
matter. 

Could  I  have  my  will  of  the  heathen,  I  would  lock  him 
up  from  all  access  of  new  ideas ;  I  would  exclude  all  critics 
that  would  not  swear  first  (upon  their  Virgil)  that  they  would 
feed  him  with  nothing  but  the  old,  safe,  familiar  notions  and 
sounds  (the  rightful  aborigines  of  his  brain) — Gray,  Aken- 
side,  and  Mason.  In  these  sounds,  reiterated  as  often  as  pos- 
sible, there  could  be  nothing  painful,  nothing  distracting. 

God  bless  me,  here  are  the  birds,  smoking  hot ! 

All  that  is  gross  and  unspiritual  in  me  rises  at  the  sight ! 

Avaunt  friendship,  and  all  memory  of  absent  friends  ! 

C.  Lamb. 

In  the  following  letter,  the  exciting  subjects  of  Dr.  A 

and  Dyer  are  further  played  on. 


LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE.  75 


TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

George  Dyer  is  the  only  literary  character  I  am  happily 
acquainted  with  ;  the  oftener  I  see  him,  the  more  deeply  I 
admire  him.  He  is  goodness  itself.  If  I  could  but  calcu- 
late the  precise  date  of  his  death,  I  would  write  a  novel  on 
purpose  to  make  George  the  hero.  I  could  hit  him  off  to  a 
hair.*  George  brought  a  Dr.  A to  see  me.  The  Doc- 
tor is  a  very  pleasant  old  man,  a  great  genius  for  agricul- 
ture, one  that  ties  his  breeches-knees  with  a  packthread,  and 
boasts  of  having  had  disappointments  from  ministers.  The 
Doctor  happened  to  mention  an  epic  poem  by  one  VVilkie, 
called  the  "  Epigoniad,"  in  which  he  assured  us  there  is  not 
one  tolerable  line  from  beginning  to  end,  but  all  the  charac- 
ters, incidents,  &c.,  verbally  copied  from  Homer.  George, 
who  had  been  sitting  quite  inattentive  to  the  Doctor's  criti- 
cism, no  sooner  felt  the  sound  of  Homer  strike  his  pericran- 
icks,  than  up  he  gets,  and  declares  he  must  see  that  poem 
immediately ;  where  was  it  to  be  had  ?  An  epic  poem  of 
8000  lines,  and  he  not  hear  of  it !  There  must  be  some 
things  good  in  it,  and  it  was  necessary  he  should  see  it,  for 
he  had  touched  pi'etty  deeply  upon  that  subject  in  his  criti- 
cism on  the  Epic.  George  has  touched  pretty  deeply  upon 
the  Lyric,  I  find  ;  he  has  also  prepared  a  dissertation  upon 
the  Drama  and  the  comparison  of  the  English  and  German 
theatres.  As  I  rather  doubted  his  competency  to  do  the  lat- 
ter, knowing  that  his  peculiar  turn  lies  in  the  lyric  species 
of  composition,  I  questioned  George  what  English  plays  he 
had  read.  I  found  that  he  had  read  Shakspeare  (whom  he 
calls  an  original,  but  irregular,  genius) ;  but  it  was  a  good 
while  ago ;  and  he  has  dipped  into  Rowe  and  Otway,  I  sup- 
pose having  found  their  verses  in  "  Johnson's  Lives"  at  full 
length  ;  and  upon  this  slender  ground  he  has  undertaken  the 
task.  He  never  seemed  even  to  have  heard  of  Fletcher, 
Ford,  Marlowe,  Massinger,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's 
Collection  ;    but  he  is  to  read  all  these,  to  prepare  him  for 

*  This  passage,  thus  far,  is  printed  in  the  former  volumes  ;  the  re- 
mainder was  then  suppressed  (with  other  passages  now  for  the  first  time 
published)  relating  to  Mr.  Dyer,  lest  they  should  give  pain  to  that  ex- 
cellent person  then  living. 


76  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

bringing  out  his  "Parallel"  in  the  winter.  I  find  he  is  also 
determined  to  vindicate  Poetry  from  the  shackles  which  Aris- 
totle and  some  others  have  imposed  upon  it,  which  is  very 
good-natured  of  him,  and  very  necessary  just  now.  Now  I 
am  touching  so  deeply  upon  poetry,  can   I  forget  that  I  have 

just  received  from  D a  magnificent  copy  of  his  Guinea 

Epic.  Four-and-twenty  books  to  read  in  the  dog-days!  I 
got  as  far  as  the  Mad  Monk  the  first  day,  and  fainted.     Mr. 

D 's  genius  strongly  points  him  to  the  Pastoral,  but  his 

inclinations  divert  him  perpetually  from  his  calling.  He 
imitates  Southey,  as  Rowe  did  Shakspeare,  with  his  "  Good 
morrow  to  ye;  good  master  Lieutenant."  Instead  of  a  man, 
a  woman,  a  daughter,  he  constantly  writes  one  a  man,  one  a 
woman,  one  his  daughter.  Instead  of  the  king,  the  hero,  he 
constantly  writes,    he  the   king,  he  the  hero  ;    two  flowers 

of  rhetoric,   palpably  from  the  "  Joan."     But   Mr.   D 

soars  a  higher  pitch ;  and  when  he  is  original,  it  is  in  a  most 
original  way  indeed.  His  terrific  scenes  are  indefatigable. 
Serpents,  asps,  spiders,  ghosts,  dead  bodies,  staircases  made 
of  nothing,  with  adders'  tongues  for  bannisters — Good  Hea- 
ven !  what  a  brain  he  must  have.  He  puts  as  many  plums 
in  his  pudding  as  my  grandmother  used  to  do  ; — and  then  his 
emerging  from  Hell's  horrors  into  light,  and  treading  on  pure 
flats  of  this  earth — for  twenty-three  Books  together! 

C.  L. 

The  following  letter,  obviously  written  about  the  same 
time,  pursues  the  same  theme.  There  is  some  iteration  in 
it ;  but  even  that  is  curious  enough  to  prevent  the  excision 
of  the  reproduced  passages. 


to  mr.  manning. 

Dear  Manning, 

I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  and  am  at  a  loss 
how  to  do  it  in  the  most  delicate  manner.  For  this  purpose 
1  have  been  looking  into  Pliny's  Letters,  who  is  noted  to  have 
had  the  best  grace  in  begging  of  all  the  ancients  (I  read  him 
in  the  elegant  translation  of  Mr.  Melmoth),  but  not  finding 
any  case  there  exactly  similar  with  mine,  I  am  constrained 


LETTERS    TO    MANNING.  77 

to  beg  in  my  own  barbarian  way.  To  come  to  the  point, 
then,  and  hasten  into  the  middle  of  things  ;  have  you  a  copy 
of  your  Algebra  to  give  away  ?  1  do  not  ask  it  for  myself; 
I  have  too  much  reverence  for  the  Black  Arts  ever  to  ap- 
proach thy  circle,  illustrious  Trismegist !  But  that  worthy 
man,  and  excellent  poet,  George  Dyer,  made  me  a  visit  yes- 
ternight, on  purpose  to  borrow  one,  supposing,  rationally 
enough,  I  must  say,  that  you  had  made  me  a  present  of  one 
before  this  ;  the  omission  of  which  I  take  to  have  proceeded 
only  from  negligence  ;  but  it  is  a  fault.  I  could  lend  him 
no  assistance.  You  must  know  he  is  just  now  diverted  from 
the  pursuit  of  the  Bell  Letters  by  a  paradox  which  he  has 
heard  his  friend*  (that  learned  mathematician)  maintain, 
that  the  negative  quantities  of  mathematicians  were  mercz 
rnigCB,  things  scarcely  in  rerum  naturCi,  and  smacking  too 
much  of  mystery  for  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Frend's  clear  Unita- 
rian capacity.  However,  the  dispute  once  set  a-going,  has 
seized  violently  on  George's  pericranicks ;  and  it  is  neces- 
sary for  his  health  that  he  should  'speedily  come  to  a  resolu- 
tion of  his  doubts.  He  goes  about  teasing  his  friends  with 
his  new  mathematics  ;  he  even  frantically  talks  of  purchasing 
Manning's  Algebra,  which  shows  him  far  gone,  for,  to  my 
knowledge,  he  has  not  been  master  of  seven  shillings  a  good 

time.     George's  pockets  and 's  brains  are  two  things 

in  nature   which  do  not   abhor  a  vacuum Now, 

if  you  could  step  in,  on  this  trembling  suspense  of  his  reason, 
and  he  should  find  on  Saturday  morning,  lying  for  him  at 
the  Porter's  Lodge,  Clifford's  Inn, — his  safest  address — 
Manning's  Algebra,  with  a  neat  manuscription  in  the  blank 
leaf,  running  thus,  "  Fro.m  the  Author  !"  it  might  save  his 
wits  and  restore  the  unhappy  author  to  those  studies  of  poetry 
and  criticism,  which  are  at  present  suspended,  to  the  infinite 
regret  of  the  whole  literary  world.  N.  B. — Dirty  covers, 
smeared  leaves,  and  dog's  ears,  will  be  rather  a  recommen- 
dation than  otherwise.  N.  B. — He  must  have  the  book  as 
soon  as  possible,  or  nothing  can  withhold  him  from  madly 
purchasing  the   book  on  jtick  .  .   .  Then  we  shall  see  him 

*  Mr.  Fiend,  many  years  the  Actuary  of  the  Rock  Insurance  Office,  in 
early  life  the  champion  ofUnitarianism  at  Cambridge  ;  the  object  of  a 
great  University's  displeasure  :  in  short,  the  "  village  Hampden"  of  the 
day. 


^M  V-.' 


78  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

sweetly  restored  to  the  chair  of  Longinus — to  dictate  in 
smooth  and  modest  phrase  the  laws  of  verse  ;  to  prove  that 
Theocritus  first  introduced  the  pastoral,  and  Virgil  and  Pope 
brought  it  to  its  perfection  ;  that  Gray  and  Mason  (who 
always  hunt  in  couples  in  George's  brain,  have  shown  a 
great  deal  of  poetical  fire  in  their  lyric  poetry  ;  that  Aristo- 
tle's rules  are  not  to  be  servilely  followed,  which  George  has 
shown  to  have  imposed  great  shackles  upon  modern  genius. 
His  poems,  I  find,  are  to  consist  of  two  vols. — reasonable 
octavo  ;  and  a  third  book  will  exclusively  contain  criticisms, 
in  which  he  has  gone  iiretty  deeply  into  the  laws  of  blank 
verse  and  rhyme — epic  poetry,  dramatic  and  pastoral  ditto — 
all  which  is  to  come  out  before  Christmas.  But  above  all 
he  has  touched  most  deeply  upon  the  Drama,  comparing  the 
English  with  the  modern  German  stage,  their  merits  and 
defects.  Apprehending  that  his  studies  (not  to  mention  his 
turn,  which  I  take  to  be  chiefly  towards  the  lyrical  poetry) 
hardly  qualified  him  for  these  disquisitions,  I  modestly  in- 
quired what  plays  he  had  read.  I  found  George's  reply  was 
that  he  had  read  Shakspeare,  but  that  was  a  good  while 
since  :  he  calls  him  a  great,  irregular  genius,  which  I  think 
to  be  an  original  and  just  remark.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
Massinger,  Ben  Jonson,  Shirley,  Marlowe,  Ford,  and  the 
worthies  of  Dodsley's  Collection — he  confessed  he  had  read 
none  of  them,  but  professed  his  intentimi  of  looking  through 
them  all,  so  as  to  be  able  to  touch  upon  them  in  his  book. 
So  Shakspeare,  Otway,  and  I  believe  Rowe,  to  whom  he  was 
naturally  directed  bj'^  Johnson's  Lives,  and  these  not  read 
lately,  are  to  stand  him  instead  of  a  general  knowledge  of 
the  subject.     God  bless  his  dear  absurd  head. 

By  the  by,  did  I  not  write  you  a  letter  with  something 
about  an  invitation  in  it  ? — but  let  that  pass ;  I  suppose  it  is 
not  agreeable. 

N.  B.  It  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  were  to  accompany 
your  present  with  a  dissertation  on  negative  quantities. 

C.  L. 

The  "  Algebra"  arrived  ;  and  Lamb  wrote  the  following 
invitation,  in  hope  to  bring  the  author  and  the  presentee 
together. 


LETTERS   TO    MANNING.  79 


TO  MR.  MANNING. 

George  Dyer  is  an  Archimedes  and  an  Archimiigus,  and 
a  Tycho  Brahe,  and  a  Copernicus;  and  thou  art  the  darling 
of  the  Nine,  and  midwife  to  their  wandering  babe  also!  We 
take  tea  with  that  learned  poet  and  critic  on  Tuesday  night, 
at  half-past  five,  in  his  neat  library ;  the  repast  will  be  light 
and  Attic,  witli  criticism.  If  thou  couldst  contrive  to  wheel 
up  thy  dear  carcase  on  the  Monday,  and  after  dining  with  us 
on  tripe,  kidneys,  or  whatever  else  llie  Cornucopia  of  St. 
Clare  may  be  willing  to  pour  out  on  the  occasion,  might  we 
not  adjourn  together  to  the  heathen's — thou  with  thy  Black 
Backs,  and  I  with  some  innocent  volume  of  the  Bell  Letters, 
Shenstone,  or  the  like  :  it  would  make  him  wash  his  old 
flannel  gown  (that  has  not  been  washed,  to  my  knowledge, 
since  it  has  been  his — Oh,  the  long  time  !)  with  tears 
of  joy.  Thou  shouldst  settle  his  scruples,  and  unravel  his 
cobwebs,  and  sponge  off  the  sad  stuff  that  weighs  upon  his 
dear  wounded  pia  mater  ;  thou  wouldst  restore  light  to  his 
eyes,  and  him  to  his  friends  and  the  public  ;  Parnassus 
should  shower  her  civic  crowns  on  thee  for  saving  the  wits 
of  a  citizen  !  I  thought  T  saw  a  lucid  interval  in  George  the 
other  night — he  broke  in  upon  my  studies  just  at   tea-time, 

and  brought  with  him  Dr.  A ,  an  old  gentleman  who  ties 

his  breeches'  knees  with  packthread,  and  boasts  that  he  has 
been  disappointed  by  ministers.  The  Doctor  wanted  to  see 
me  ;  for  I  being  a  poet,  he  thought  I  might  furnish  him  with 
a  copy  of  verses  to  suit  his  Agricultural  Magazine.  The 
Doctor,  in  the  course  of  the  conversation,  mentioned  a  poem 
called  the  "  Epigoniad"  by  one  Wilkie,  an  epic  poem,  in 
which  there  is  not  one  tolerable  line  all  through,  but  every 
incident  and  speech  borrowed  from  Flomer.  George  had 
been  sitting  inattentive,  seemingly,  to  what  was  going  on — 
hatching  of  negative  quantities — when,  suddenly,  the  name 
of  his  old  friend,  Homer,  stung  his  pericranicks,  and,  jumping 
up,  he  begged  to  know  where  he  could  meet  with  Wilkie's 
works.  "  It  was  a  curious  fact  that  there  should  be  such  an 
epic  poem  and  he  not  know  of  it ;  and  lie  must  get  a  copy  of 
it,  as  he  was  going  to  touch  pretty  deeply  upon  the  subject  of 
the  Epic — and  he  was  sure  there  must  be  some  things  good 
in  a  poem  of  8000  lines !"     I  was  pleased  with  this  transient 


80  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

return  of  his  reason  and  recurrence  to  his  old  ways  of  think- 
ing :  it  gave  me  great  hopes  of  a  recovery,  which  nothing 
but  your  book  can  completely  insure.  Pray  come  on  Mon- 
day, if  you  can,  and  stay  your  own  time.  1  have  a  good, 
large  room,  with  two  beds  in  it,  in  the  handsomest  of  which 
thou  shalt  repose  a  night,  and  dream  of  Spheroids.  I  hope 
you  will  understand  by  the  nonsense  of  this  letter  that  I  am 
710/  melancholy  at  the  thoughts  of  thy  coming:  I  thought  it 
necessary  to  add  this,  because  you  love  ]}recision.  Take 
notice  that  our  stay  at  Dyer's  will  not  exceed  eight  o'clock, 
after  which  our  pursuits  will  be  our  own.  But,  indeed,  I 
think  a  little  recreation  among  the  Bell  Letters  and  poetry 
will  do  you  some  service  in  the  interval  of  severer  studies. 
I  hope  we  shall  fully  discuss  with  George  Dyer  what  1  have 
never  yet  heard  done  to  my  satisfaction,  the  reason  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  malevolent  strictures  on  the  higher  species  of  the 
Ode. 

Manning  could  not  come  :  and  Dyer's  subsequent  symp- 
toms are  described  in  the  following  letter —      -       \  .  •' 

TO  MR.  MANNING.    ^   •     ,.,i^ -V/v,/,..^^ 

At  length  George  Dyer's  pjirenesis  has  come  to  a  crisis ; 
he  is  raging  and  furiously  mad.  I  waited  upon  the  heathen, 
Thursday  se'nnight ;  the  first  symptom  which  struck  my  eye, 
and  gave  me  incontrovertible  proof  of  the  fatal  truth,  was  a 
pair  of  nankeen  pantaloons,  four  times  too  big  for  him,  which 
the  said  heathen  did  pertinaciously  affirm  to  be  new.  They 
were  absolutely  ingrained  with  the  accumulated  dirt  of  ages; 
but  he  affirmed  them  to  be  clean.  He  was  going  to  visit  a 
lady  that  was  nice  about  those  things,  and  that's  the  reason 
he  wore  nankeen  that  day.  And  i)e  danced,  and  capered, 
and  fidgeted,  and  pulled  up  his  pantaloons,  and  hugged  his 
intolerable  flannel  vestment  closer  about  his  poetic  loins  ; 
anon  he  gave  it  loose  to  the  zephyrs  which  plentifully  in- 
sinuated their  tiny  bodies  through  every  crevice,  door,  win- 
dow, or  wainscot,  expressly  formed  for  the  exclusion  of  such 
impertinents.  Tlicn  he  caught  at  a  proof  sheet,  and  catched 
up  a  laundress's   bill  instead — made  a  dart  at  Bloomfield's 


LETTERS    TO    MANNING.  81 

Poems,  and  threw  them  in  agony  aside.  I  could  not  bring 
liim  to  one  direct  reply  ;  he  could  not  maintain  his  jumping 
mind  in  a  right  line  for  the  tithe  of  a  moment  by  Clifford's 
Inn  clock.  He  must  go  to  tiic  printer's  immediately — the 
most  unlucky  accident — he  had  struck  off  five  hundred  im- 
pressions  of  his  Poems,  which  were  ready  for  delivery  to 
subscribers,  and  the  Preface  must  all  be  e-xpunged  ;  there 
were  eighty  pages  of  Preface,  and  not  till  that  morning  had 
he  discovered,  that  in  the  very  first  page  of  said  Preface 
he  had  set  out  with  a  principle  of  Criticism  fundamentally 
wrong,  which  vitiated  all  his  following  reasoning  ;  the  Pre- 
face must  be  expunged,  although  it  cost  him  £30,  the  lowest 
calculation,  taking  in  paper  and  printing !  In  vain  have  his 
real  friends  remonstrated  against  this  Midsummer  madness. 
George  is  as  sturdy  in  his  resolution  as  a  Primitive  Christian 
— and  wards  and  parries  off  all  our  thrusts  with  one  unan- 
swerable fence  ; — "  Sir,  it's  of  great  consequence  that  the 
world  is  not  misled  .'" 

I've  often  wished  I  lived  in  the  Golden  Age,  before  doubt, 
and  propositions,  and  corollaries  got  into  the  world.     Now, 

as  Joseph  D ,  Bard  of  Nature,  sings,  going  up  Malvern 

Hills, 

"  How  steep  !  how  painful  the  ascent ! 
It  needs  the  evidence  of  close  deduction 
To  know  that  ever  I  shall  gain  the  top." 

You  must  knew  that  Joe  is  lame,  so  that  he  had  some  reason 
for  so  saying.  These  two  lines,  I  assure  you,  are  taken  toti- 
deni  Uteris  from  a  very  popular  poem.  Joe  is  also  an  Epic 
poet  as  well  as  a  Descriptive,  and  has  written  a  tragedy, 
though  both  his  drama  and  epopcEia  are  strictly  descriptive, 
and  chiefly  of  the  beauties  of  Nature,  for  Joe  thinks  man, 
with  all  his  passions  and  frailties,  not  a  proper  subject  of  the 
Drama.  Joe's  tragedy  hath  the  following  surpassing  speech 
in  it.  Some  king  is  told  that  his  enemy  has  engaged  twelve 
archers  to  come  over  in  a  boat  from  an  enemy's  country,  and 
way-lay  him  ;  he  thereupon  pathetically  exclaims — 

"  Twelve,  dost  thou  say  ?     Curse  on  those  dozen  villains  !" 

D read  two  of  the  acts  out  to  us  very  gravely  on  both 

sides  till  he  came  to  this  heroic  touch,  and  then  he  asked 
4* 


82  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

what  we  laughed  at  ?  I  had  no  more  muscles  that  day. 
A  poet  who  chooses  to  read  out  his  own  verses  has  but  a  limit- 
ed power  over  you.  There  is  a  bound  where  his  author- 
ity ceases. 


The  following  letter,  written  some  time  in  1801,  shows 
that  Lamb  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  occasional  employ- 
ment as  a  writer  of  epigrams  for  newspapers,  by  which  he 
added  something  to  his  slender  income.  The  disparaging 
reference  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh  must  not  be  taken  as  ex- 
pressive of  Lamb's  deliberate  opinion  of  that  distinguished 
person.  Mackintosh,  at  this  time,  was  in  great  disfavor  for 
his  supposed  apostacy  from  the  principles  of  his  youth,  with 
Lamb's  philosophic  friends,  whose  minds  were  of  tempera- 
ment less  capable  than  that  of  the  author  of  the  VindicicB  Gal- 
liccR  of  being  diverted  from  abstract  theories  of  liberty  by  the 
crimes  and  sufferings  which  then  attended  the  great  attempt 
to  reduce  them  to  practice.  Lamb,  through  life  utterly  in- 
different to  politics,  was  always  ready  to  take  part  with  his 
friends,  and  probably  scouted,  with  them,  Mackintosh  as  a 
deserter. 

to  mr.  manning. 

Dear  Manning, 

I  have  forborne  writing  so  long  (and  so  have  you 
for  the  matter  of  that),  until  I  am  almost  ashamed  either  to 
write  or  to  forbear  any  longer.  But  as  your  silence  may 
proceed  from  some  worse  cause  than  neglect — from  illness, 
or  some  mishap  which  may  have  befallen  you,  I  begin  to  be 
anxious.  You  may  have  been  burnt  out,  or  you  may  have 
married,  or  you  may  have  broken  a  limb,  or  turned  country 
parson  ;  any  of  these  would  be  cause  sufficient  for  not  coming 
to  my  supper.  I  am  not  so  unforgiving  as  the  nobleman  in 
Saint  Mark.  For  me,  nothing  new  has  happened  to  me, 
unless  that  the  poor  Albion  died  last  Saturday  of  the  world's 
neglect,  and  with  it  the  fountain  of  my  puns  is  choked  up 
for  ever. 

All  the  Lloyds  wonder  that  you  do  not  write  to  them. 
They  apply  to  me  for  the  cause.     Relieve   me    from  this 


LETTER    TO    WILSON.  83 


weight  of  ignorance,  and  enable  me  to  give  a  truly  oracular 
response. 

1  have  been  confined  some  days  with  swelled  cheek  and 
rheumatism — they  divide  and  govern  me  with  a  viceroy- 
headache  in  the  middle.  I  can  neither  write  nor  read  with- 
out great  pain.  It  must  be  something  like  obstinacy  that  I 
choose  this  time  to  write  to  you  after  many  months  interrup- 
tion. 

I  will  close  my  letter  of  simple  inquiry  with  an  epigram 
on  Mackintosh,  the  Vindicim  Gallick-ma.n — who  has  got  a 
place  at  last — one  of  the  last  I  did  for  the  Albion  : 

"  Though  thou  'rt  like  Judas,  an  apostate  black, 
In  the  resemblance  one  thing  thou  ilost  lack  ;  '- 

When  he  had  gotten  his  ill-purchas'd  pelf. 
He  went  away,  and  wisely  hanged  himself; 
This  thou  may  do  at  last,  yet  much  I  doubt 
If  thou  hast  any  Bowels  to  gush  out !" 

Yours,  as  ever, 
C.  Lamb. 

Some  sportive  extravagance  which,  however  inconsistent 
with  Lamb's  early  sentiments  of  reverent  piety,  was  very 
far  from  indicating  an  irreligious  purpose,  seems  to  have  given 
otience  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson,  and  to  have  induced  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  illustrative  of  the  writer's  feelings  at  this  time, 
on  the  most  momentous  of  all  subjects. 


to  mr.  walter  wilson. 

Dear  Wilson, 

I  am  extremely  sorry  that  any  serious  difference 
should  subsist  between  us,  on  account  of  some  foolish  beha- 
vior of  mine  at  Richmond  ;  you  knew  me  well  enough  be- 
fore, that  a  very  little  liquor  will  cause  a  considerable 
alteration  in  me. 

I  beg  you  to  impute  my  conduct  solely  to  that,  and  not  to 
any  deliberate  intention  of  offending  you,  from  whom  I  have 
received  so  many  friendly  attentions.  I  know  that  you  think 
a  very  important  difference  in  opinion  with  respect  to  some 
more  serious  subjects   between  us  makes  me  a  dangerous 


84  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

companion  ;  but  do  not  rashly  infer,  from  some  slight  and 
light  expressions  which  I  may  have  made  use  of  in  a  moment 
of  levity,  in  your  presence,  without  sufficient  regard  to  your 
feelings — do  not,  I  pray  you,  conclude  that  I  am  an  invete- 
rate enemy  to  all  religion.  I  have  had  a  time  of  seriousness, 
and  I  have  known  the  importance  and  reality  of  a  religious 
belief.  Latterly,  I  acknowledge,  much  of  my  seriousness  has 
gone  off,  whether  from  new  company,  or  some  other  new  asso- 
ciations ;  but  I  still  retain  at  botlom  a  conviction  of  the  truth, 
and  a  certainty  of  the  usefulness  of  religion.  1  will  not  pretend 
to  more  gravity  of  feeling  than  I  at  present  possess  ;  my  inten- 
tion is  not  to  persuade  you  that  any  great  alteration  is  pro- 
bable in  me  ;  sudden  converts  are  superficial  and  transitory  ; 
I  only  want  you  to  believe  that  I  have  stamina  of  seriousness 
within  me,  and  that  I  desire  nothing  more  than  a  return  of 
that  friendly  intercourse  which  used  to  subsist  between  us, 
but  which  my  folly  has  suspended. 

Believe  me,  very  affectionately,  yours, 

C.  Lamb. 
Friday,  14th  August,  1801. 

In  1803  Coleridge  visited  London,  and  at  his  departure 
left  the  superintendence  of  a  new  edition  of  his  poems  to  Lamb. 
The  following  letter,  written  in  reply  to  one  of  Coleridge's, 
giving  a  mournful  account  of  his  journey  to  the  north  with 
an  old  man  and  his  influenza,  refers  to  a  splendid  smoking- 
cap  which  Coleridge  had  worn  at  their  evening  meetings. 


TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

My  DEAR  Coleridge, 

Things  have  gone  on  better  with  me  since  you  left 
me.  I  expect  to  have  my  old  housekeeper  home  again  in  a 
week  or  two.  She  has  mended  most  rapidly.  My  health 
too  has  been  better  since  you  took  away  that  Montero  cap. 
I  have  left  offcayenned  eggs  and  sucli  bolsters  to  discomfort. 
There  was  death  in  tliat  cap.  I  mischievously  wished  that 
by  some  inauspicious  jolt  the  whole  contents  might  be  shaken, 
and  the  coach  set  on  fire ;  for  you  said  they  had  that  proper- 
ty.    How  the  old  gentleman,  who  joined  you  at  Grantham, 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  85 

would  have  clnpt  his  hands  to  his  knees,  and  not  knowing 
but  it  was  an  immediate  visitation  of  Heaven  that  l)urnt  him, 
how  pious  it  would  have  made  him  ;  him,  I  mean,  that 
brouglit  tlie  influenza  with  him,  and  oidy  took  j51aces  for  one 
— an  old  sinner;  he  must  have  known  wiiat  he  had  got  with 
him  !  However,  I  wish  the  cap  no  harm  for  the  sake  of  the 
head  it  jits,  and  could  be  content  to  see  it  disfigure  my  healthy 
side-board  again. 

What  do  you  think  of  smoking  ?  I  want  your  sober, 
average,  noon  opinion  of  it.  i  generally  am  eating  my  din- 
ner about  the  time  I  should  determine  it. 

Morning  is  a  girl,  and  can't  smoke — she's  no  evidence 
one  way  or  the  other;  and  Night  is  so  bought  over,  that  he 
can't  be  a  very  upright  judge.  May  be  the  truth  is,  that 
07ie  pipe  is  wholesome  ;  ttvo  pipes  toothsome  ;  three  pipes 
noisome  ;  four  pipes  fulsome,  five  pipes  quarrelsome,  and 
that's  the  su7n  on't.  But  that  is  deciding  rather  upon  rhyme 
than  reason.  .  .  .  After  all,  our  instincts  may  be  best. 
Wine  I  am  sure,  good,  mellow,  generous  Port,  can  hurt  no- 
body, unless  those  who  take  it  to  excess,  which  they  may 
easily  avoid  if  they  observe  tlie  rules  of  temperance. 

Bless  you,  old  sophist,  who  next  to  human  nature  taught 
me  all  the  corruption  I  was  capable  of  knowing!  And  bless 
your  Montero  cap,  and  your  trail  (which  shall  come  after 
you  whenever  you  appoint),  and  your  wife  and  children — 
Pipes  especially. 

When  shall  we  two  smoke  again  ?  Last  night  I  had 
been  in  a  sad  quandary  of  spirits,  in  what  they  call  the 
evening,  but  a  pipe,  and  some  generous  Port,  and  King  Lear 
(being  alone),  had  their  effects  as  solacers.  I  went  to  bed 
pot-valiant.  By  the  way,  may  not  the  Ogles  of  Somerset- 
shire be  remotely  descended  from  King  Lear  ? 

C.  L. 

The  next  letter  is  prefaced  by  happy  news. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Mary  sends  love  from  home. 
Dear  C, 

I   do   confess  that  I   have  not  sent  your  books  as  I 
ought  to  have  done  ;  but  you  know  how  the  human  free  will 


8d  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

is  tethered,  and  that  we  perform  promises  to  ourselves  no 
better  than  to  our  friends.  A  watch  is  come  for  you.  Do 
you  want  it  soon,  or  shall  I  wait  till  some  one  travels  your 
way  ?  You,"  like  me,  reckon  the  lapse  of  time  from  the 
waste  thereof,  as  boys  let  a  cock  run  to  waste ;  too  idle  to 
stop  it,  and  rather  amused  with  seeing  it  dribble.  Your 
poems  have  begun  printing ;  Longman  sent  to  me  to  arrange 
them,  the  old  and  the  new  together.  It  seems  you  have  left 
it  to  him  ;  so  I  classed  them,  as  nearly  as  I  could,  accord- 
ing to  dates.  First,  after  the  Dedication,  (which  must  march 
first,)  and  which  I  have  transplanted  from  before  the  Pre- 
face, (which  stood  like  a  dead  wall  of  prose  between,)  to  be 
the  first  Poem — then  comes  "  The  Pixies,"  and  the  things 
most  juvenile — then  on  "  To  Chatterton,"  &c. — on,  lastly, 
to  the  "  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,"  and  "  Musings," — 
which  finish.  Longman  wanted  the  Ode  first,  but  the  ar- 
rangement I  have  made  is  precisely  that  marked  out  in  the 
Dedication,  following  the  order  of  time.  I  told  Longman  I 
was  sure  that  you  would  omit  a  good  portion  of  the  first  edi- 
tion. I  instanced  several  sonnets,  &c. — but  that  was  not  his 
plan,  and,  as  you  have  done  nothing  in  it,  all  I  could  do  was 
to  arrange  them  on  the  supposition  that  all  were  to  be  re- 
tained. A  few  I  positively  rejected  ;  such  as  that  of  "  The 
Thimble,"  and  that  of  "  Flicker  and  Flicker's  wife,"  and 
that  not  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  which  you  yourself  had 
stigmatized — and  "  The  Man  of  Ross," — I  doubt  whether  I 
should  this  last.  It  is  not  too  late  to  save  it.  The  first  proof 
is  only  just  come.  I  have  been  forced  to  call  that  Cupid's 
Elixir,  "  Kisses."  It  stands  in  your  first  volume,  as  an  Ef- 
fusion, so  that,  instead  of  prefixing  The  Kiss  to  that  of  "  One 
Kiss,  dear  Maid,"  &c.,  I  have  ventured  to  entitle  it  "  To 
Sara."  I  am  aware  of  the  nicety  of  changing  even  so  mere 
a  trifle  as  a  title  to  so  short  a  piece,  and  subverting  old  asso- 
ciations ;  but  two  called  "  Kisses"  would  have  been  abso- 
lutely ludicrous,  and  "Effusion"  is  no  name,  and  these  poems 
come  close  together.  I  promise  you  not  to  alter  one  word 
in  any  poem  whatever,  but  to  take  your  last  text,  where  two 
are.  Can  you  send  any  wishes  about  the  book  ?  Longman, 
I  think,  should  have  settled  with  you  ;  but  it  seems  you  have 
left  it  to  him.  Write  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can ;  for,  with- 
out making  myself  responsible,  1  feel  myself,  in  some  sort, 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  87 

accessary  to  the  selection,  which  I  am  to  proof-correct ;  but 
I  decidedly  said  to  Biggs  that  I  was  sure  you  would  omit 
more.  Those  I  have  positively  rubbed  off,  I  can  swear  to, 
individually,  (except  the  "  Man  of  Ross,"  which  is  too  familiar 
in  Pope,)  but  no  others — you  have  your  cue.  For  my  part, 
I  had  rather  all  the  Juvenilia  were  kept — memoricB  causa. 

Robert  Lloyd  has  written  me  a  masterly  letter,  containing 
a  character  of  his  father  ; — see  how  different  from  Charles 
he  views  the  old  man  !  {Literatim.)  "  My  father  smokes,  re- 
peats Homer  in  Greek,  and  Virgil,  and  is  learning,  when 
from  business,  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  young  man,  Italian. 
He  is,  really,  a  wonderful  man.  He  mixes  public  and  pri- 
vate  business,  the  intricacies  of  disordering  life  with  hisreli-^ 
gion  and  devotion.  No  one  more  rationally  enjoys  the  ro- 
mantic scenes  of  nature,  and  the  chit-chat  and  little  vagaries 
of  his  children ;  and,  though  surrounded  with  an  ocean  of 
affairs,  the  very  neatness  of  his  most  obscure  cupboard  in  the 
house  passes  not  unnoticed.  I  never  knew  any  one  view 
with  such  clearness,  nor  so  well  satisfied  with  things  as  they 
are,  and  make  such  allowance  for  things  which  must  appear 
perfect  Syriac  to  him."  By  the  last  he  means  the  Lloydisms 
of  the  younger  branches.  His  portrait  of  Charles,  as  far  as 
he  has  had  opportunities  of  noting  him,  is  most  exquisite. 
"  Charles  is  become  steady  as  a  church,  as  straightforward 
as  a  Roman  road.  It  would  distract  him  to  mention  any 
thing  that  was  as  plain  as  sense  ;  he  seems  to  have  run  the 
whole  scenery  of  life,  and  now  rests  as  the  formal  precisian 
of  non-existence."  Here  is  genius  I  think,  and  'tis  seldom 
a  young  man,  a  Lloyd,  looks  at  a  father  (so  differing)  with 
such  good  nature  while  he  is  alive.     Write — 

I  am  in  post-haste, 

C.  Lamb. 

The  next  letter,  containing  a  further  account  of  Lamb's 
superintendence  of  the  new  edition,  bears  the  date  of  Satur- 
day, 27th  May,  1803. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Saturday,  2Tth  May. 
My  dear  Coleridge, 

The  date  of  my  last  was  one  day  prior  to  the  re- 
ceipt of  your  letter,  full  of  foul  omens.     I   explain,  lest  you 


88  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

should  have  thought  mine  too  light  a  reply  to  such  sad  mat- 
ter. I  seriously  hope  by  this  time  you  have  given  up  all 
thoughts  of"  journeying  to  the  green  Islands  of  the  Blest — voy- 
ages in  time  of  war  are  very  precarious — or  at  least,  that  you 
will  take  them  in  your  way  1o  the  Azores.  Pray  be  careful 
of  this  letter  till  it  has  done  its  duty,  for  it  is  to  inform  you 
that  I  have  booked  off  your  watch  (laid  in  cotton  like  an  un- 
timely fruit),  and  with  it  Condillac,  and  all  other  books  of 
yours  which  were  left  here.  These  will  set  out  on  Monday 
next,  the  29th  May,  by  Kendal,  from  White  Horse,  Cripple- 
gate.  You  will  make  seasonable  inquiries,  for  a  watch 
mayn't  come  your  way  again  in  a  hurry.  I  have  been  re- 
peatedly after  Tobin,  and  now  hear  that  he  is  in  the  country, 
not  to  return  till  middle  of  June.  I  will  take  care  and  see 
him  with  the  earliest.  But  cannot  you  write  pathetically 
to  him,  enforcing  a  speedy  mission  of  your  books  for  literary 
purposes?  He  is  too  good  a  retainer  to  Literature,  to  let 
her  interests  suffer  through  his  default.  And  why  are  your 
books  to  travel  from  Barnard's  Inn  to  the  Temple,  and  thence 
circuitously  to  Cripplegate,  when  their  business  is  to  take  a 
short  cut  down  Holborn-hill,  up  Snow  do.,  on  to  Wood-street, 
&c.  ?  The  former  mode  seems  a  sad  superstitious  subdivision 
of  labor.  Well !  the  "Man  of  Ross"  is  to  stand  ;  Longman 
begs  for  it ;  the  printer  stands  with  a  wet  sheet  in  one  hand, 
and  a  useless  Pica  in  the  other,  in  tears,  pleading  for  it ;  I 
relent.  Besides,  it  was  a  Salutation  poem,  and  has  the  mark 
of  the  beast  Tobacco  upon  it.  Thus  much  I  have  done  ;  I 
have  swept  off  the  lines  about  widoios  and  orphans  in  second 
edition,  w^^ich  (if  you  remember)  you  most  awkwardly  and 
illogically  caused  to  be  inserted  between  two  Ifs,  to  the  great 
breach  and  disunion  of  said  Tfs,  which  now  meet  again  (as 
in  first  edition),  like  two  clever  lawyers  arguing  a  case. 
Another  reason  for  subtracting  the  pathos  was,  that  the  "  Man 
of  Ross"  is  too  familiar,  to  need  telling  what  he  did,  espe- 
cially in  worse  lines  than  Pope  told  it,  and  it  now  stands  sim- 
ply as  "  Reflections  at  an  Inn  about  a  known  Character," 
and  making  an  old  story  into  an  accommodation  with  present 
feelings.  Here  is  no  breaking  spears  with  Pope,  but  a  new, 
independent,  and  really  a  very  pretty  poem.  In  fact  'tis  as 
I  used  to  admire  it  in  the  first  volume,  and  I  have  even 
dared  to  restore 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  89 

"  If 'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheer'' d  moments  pass," 

for 

"  Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheer'd  moments  pass." 

"Cheer'd  "  is  a  sad  general  word,  "  livVje-c/jeer'rf"  I'm  sure 
you'd  give  me,  if  I  had  a  speaking  trumpet  to  sound  to  you 
300  miles.  But  I  am  your  factolum,  and  that  save  in  this 
instance,  whic-h  is  a  single  case  (and  I  can't  get  at  you),  shall 
be  next  to  a  fac-nihil — at  most,  afac-simile.  I  have  ordered 
"  Imitation  of  Spenser"  to  be  restored  on  Wordsworth's  au- 
tliority  ;  and  now,  all  that  vou  will  miss  will  be  "  Flicker 
and  Flicker's  Wife,"  "  The  Thimble,"  "  Breathe  r/rar /tar- 
jiionies,''  and  /  believe,  "  The  Ciiild  that  was  i'ed  with  Manna." 
Another  volume  will  clear  off  all  your  Anthologic  Morning- 
Postian  Epistolary  Miscellanies  ;  but,  pray,  don't  put  "Chris- 
tabel  "  therein  ;  don't  let  that  sweet  maid  come  forth  at- 
tended with  Lady  Holland's  mob  at  her  heels.  Let  there 
be  a  separate  volume  of  Tales,  Choice  Tales,  "  Ancient 
Mariners,"  &c. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  following  is  the  fragment  of  a  letter  (part  being  lost), 
on  the  re-appearance  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  two  volumes, 
and  addressed 

TO    31 R.  WORDS  "WORTH. 

Thanks  for  your  letter  and  present.  I  had  already  bor- 
rowed your  second  volume.  What  most  please  me  are, 
"  The  Song  of  Lucy  ;"  Simon's  sickly  daughter,  in  "The 
Sexton,"  made  me  cry.  Next  to  these  are  the  description  of 
the  continuous  echoes  in  the  story  of  "Joanna's  Laugh," 
where  the  mountains,  and  all  the  scenery  absolutely  seem 
alive  ;  and  that  fine  Shaksperian  character  of  the  "  happy 
man,"  in  the  "  Brothers," 

"  that  creeps  about  the  fields. 

Following  his  fancies  by  ihe  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead  !" 

I  will  mention  one  more — the  delicate  and  curious  feeling  in 
the  wish  for  the  "  Cumberland  Beggar,"  that  he  may  have 


90  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

about  him  the  melody  of  birds,  although  he  hear  them  not. 
Here  the  mind  knowingly  passes  a  fiction  upon  herself,  first 
substituting  her  own  feelings  for  the  Beggar's,  and  in  the 
same  breath  detecting  the  fallacy,  will  not  part  with  the  wish. 
The  "  Poet's  Epitaph  "  is  disfigured,  to  my  taste,  by  the  com- 
mon satire  upon  parsons  and  lawyers  in  the  beginning,  and 
the  coarse  epithet  of  "  pinpoint,"  in  the  sixth  stanza.  All 
the  rest  is  eminently  good,  and  your  own.  I  will  just  add 
that  it  appears  to  me  a  fault  in  the  "  Beggar,"  that  the  in- 
structions conveyed  in  it  are  too  direct,  and  like  a  lecture  : 
they  don't  slide  into  the  mind  of  the  reader  while  he  is  ima- 
gining no  such  matter.  An  intelligent  reader  finds  a  sort 
of  insult  in  being  told,  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  think  upon 
this  subject."  This  fault,  if  I  am  right,  is  in  a  ten-thousandth 
worse  degree  to  be  found  in  Sterne,  and  many  novelists  and 
modern  poets,  who  continually  put  a  sign-post  up  to  shov/ 
where  you  are  to  feel.  They  set  out  with  assuming  their 
readers  to  be  stupid  ;  very  different  from  "  Robinson  Cru- 
soe," the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  "  Roderick  Random,"  and 
other  beautiful,  bare  narratives.  There  is  implied  an  un- 
written compact  between  author  and  reader  :  "  I  will  tell 
you  a  story,  and  I  suppose  you  will  understand  it."  Modern 
novels,  "  St.  Leon"  and  the  like,  are  full  of  such  flowers  as 
these — "  Let  not  my  reader  suppose,"  "  Imagine,  if  you 
can,  &c." — modest !  I  will  here  have  done  with  praise  and 
blame.  I  have  written  so  much,  only  that  you  may  not 
think  I  have  passed  over  your  book  without  observation.  .  .  . 
I  am  sorry  that  Coleridge  has  christened  his  "  Ancient  Mari- 
ner" "  a  Poet's  Reverie  ;"  it  is  as  bad  as  Bottom  the  Weaver's 
declaration  that  he  is  not  a  lion,  but  only  the  scenical  repre- 
sentation of  a  lion.  What  new  idea  is  gained  by  his  title 
but  one  subversive  of  all  credit — which  the  tale  should  force 
upon  us, — of  its  truth  ? 

For  me,  I  was  never  so  affected  with  any  human  tale. 
After  first  reading  it,  I  was  totally  possessed  M'ith  it  for  many 
days.  I  dislike  all  the  miraculous  part  of  it,  but  the  feel- 
ings of  the  man  under  the  operation  of  such  scenery,  dragged 
me  along  like  Tom  Pipe's  magic  whistle.  I  totally  difier 
from  the  idea  that  the  "  Mariner  "  should  have  had  a  char- 
acter and  profession.  This  is  a  beauty  in  "  Gulliver's 
Travels,"  where  the  mind  is  kept  in  a  placid  state  of  little 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  91 

wonderments  ;  but  the  "  Ancient  Mariner  "'  undergoes  such 
trials  as  overwhelm  and  bury  all  individuality  or  memory  of 
what  he  was — like  the  state  of  a  man  in  a  bad  dream,  one 
terrible  peculiarity  of  which  is,  that  all  consciousness  of  per- 
sonality is  gone.  Your  other  observation  is,  I  think  as  well, 
a  little  unfounded  :  the  "  Mariner,"  from  being  conversant 
in  supernatural  events,  has  acquired  a  super-nature  and 
strange  cast  o( phrase,  eye,  appearance,  &c.,  which  frighten 
the  ''  wedding-guest."  You  will  excuse  my  remarks,  be- 
cause I  am  hurt  and  vexed  that  you  should  think  it  neces- 
sary, with  a  prose  apology,  to  open  the  eyes  of  dead  men 
that  cannot  see. 

To  sum  up  a  general  opinion  of  the  second  volume,  I  do 
not  feel  any  one  poem  in  it  so  forcibly  as  the  "  Ancient  Mari- 
ner," the  ''  Mad  Mother,"  and  the  "  Lines  at  Tintern  Ab- 
bey "  in  the  first. 


The  following  letter  was  addressed,  on  28th  November, 
1805,  when  Lamb  was  bidding  his  generous  farewell  to  To- 
bacco, to  Wordsworth,  then  living  in  noble  poverty  with  his 
sister  in  a  cottage  by  Grassmere,  which  is  as  sacred  to  some 
of  his  old  admirers  as  even  Shakspeare's  House. 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

My  dear  Wordsworth  (or  Dorothy  rather,  for  to  you  ap- 
pertains the  biggest  part  of  this  answer  by  right),  I  will  not 
again  deserve  reproach  by  so  long  a  silence.  I  have  kept 
deluding  myself  with  the  idea  that  Mary  would  write  to 
you,  but  she  is  so  lazy,  (or  I  believe  the  true  state  of  the 
case,  so  diffident,)  that  it  must  revert  to  me  as  usual  ;  though 
she  writes  a  pretty  good  style,  and  has  some  notion  of  the 
force  of  words,  she  is  not  always  so  certain  of  the  true  or- 
thography of  them  ;  that,  and  a  poor  handwriting  (in  this 
age  of  female  calligraphy),  often  deters  her,  where  no  other 
reason  does.* 

We  have  neither  of  us  been  very  well  for  some  weeks 
past.  I  am  very  nervous,  and  she  most  so  at  th  se  times 
when  I  am  ;  so  that  a  merry  friend,  adverting  to  the  noble 

*  This  is  mere  banter ;  Miss  Lamb  wrote  a  very  good  hand. 


92  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

consolation  we  were  able  to  afford  each  other,  denominated 
us,  not  inaptly,  Gum-Boil  and  Tooth-Ache,  for  they  used  to 
say  that  a  gum-boil  is  a  great  relief  to  a  tooth-ache. 

We  have  been  two  tiny  excursions  this  summer  for  three 
or  four  days  each,  to  a  place  near  Harrow,  and  to  Egham, 
whei'e  Cooper's  Hill  is ;  and  that  is  the  total  history  of  our 
rustications  this  year.  Alas  !  how  poor  a  round  to  Skiddaw 
and  Helvellyn  and  Borrowdale,  and  the  magnificent  sesqui- 
pedalia  of  the  year  1802.  Poor  old  Molly  !  to  have  lost  her 
pride,  that  "  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds,"  and  her  cow. 
Fate  need  not  have  set  her  wits  to  such  an  old  Molly.  I  am 
heartily  sorry  for  her.  Remember  us  lovingly  to  her  ;  and 
in  particular  remember  us  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  in  the  most  kind 
manner. 

I  hope  by  "  southwards,"  you  mean  that  she  will  be 
at  or  near  London,  for  she  is  a  great  favorite  of  both  of  us, 
and  we  feel  for  her  health  as  much  as  possible  for  any  one  to 
do.  She  is  one  of  the  friendliest  comfortablest  women  we 
know,  and  made  our  little  stay  at  your  cottage  one  of  the 
pleasantest  times  we  ever  past.  We  were  quite  strangers 
to  her.  Mr.  C.  is  with  you  too;  our  kindest  separate  re- 
membrances to  him.  As  to  our  special  affairs,  I  am  looking 
about  me.  I  have  done  nothing  since  the  beginning  of  last 
year,  when  I  lost  my  newspaper  job,  and  having  had  a  long 
idleness,  1  must  do  something,  or  we  shall  get  very  poor. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  a  farce,  but  hitherto  all  schemes  have 
gone  off;  an  idle  bray  or  two  of  an  evening,  vaporing  out  of 
a  pipe,  and  going  off  in  the  morning  ;  but  now  I  have  bid 
farewell  to  my  "  sweet  enemy,"  Tobacco,  as  you  will  see  in 
my  next  page,*  I  shall  perhaps  set  nobly  to  work.    Hang  work  ! 

I  wish  ihat  all  the  year  were  holiday  ;  I  am  sure  that  in- 
dolence— indefeasible  indolence — is  the  true  state  of  man, 
and  business  the  invention  of  the  old  Teazer,  whose  interfer- 
ence doomed  Adam  to  an  apron  and  set  him  a  hoeing.  Pen 
and  ink,  and  clerks  and  desks,  were  the  refinements  of  this 
old  torturer  some  thousand  years  after,  under  pretence  of 
"  Commerce  allying  distant  shores.  Promoting  and  diffusing 
knowledge,  good,"  &c.,  &c.  Yours,  &c., 

C.  Lamb. 

*  The  "  Farewell    to    Tobacco"  was   tiansciibed    on    the  next  page  ; 
but  the  actual  sacrifice  was  not  completed  till  some  years  after. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LETTERS  TO  HAZLITT,  ETC.,  FROM  1805  TO  1810. 

About  the  year  1805  Lamb  was  introduced  to  one,  whose 
society  through  life  was  one  of  his  chief  pleasures — the  great 
critic  and  thinker,  William  Hazlitt — who,  at  that  time, 
scarcely  conscious  of  his  own  literary  powers,  was  striving 
hard  to  become  a  painter.  At  the  period  of  the  following 
letter  (which  is  dated  15th  March,  1806,)  Hazlitt  was  resid- 
ing with  his  father,  an  Unitarian  minister,  at  Wem. 


to  mr.  hazlitt. 
Dear  H., 

1  am  a  little  surprised  at  no  letter  from  you.  This 
day  week,  to  wit,  Saturday,  the  8th  of  March,  1806, 1  book'd 
ofTby  the  Wem  coach,  Bull  and  Mouth  Inn,  directed  to  you, 
at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hazlitt's,  Wem,  Shropshire,  a  parcel,  con- 
taining, besides  a  book,  &c.,  a  rare  print  which  I  take  to  be 
a  Titian  ;  begging  the  said  W.  H.  to  acknowledge  the  re- 
ceipt thereof,  which  he  not  having  done,  I  conclude  the  said 
parcel  to  be  lying  at  the  inn,  and  may  be  lost ;  for  which 
reason,  lest  you  may  be  a  Wales-hunting  at  this  instant,  I 
have  authorized  any  of  your  family,  whosoever  first  gets  this, 
to  open  it,  that  so  precious  a  parcel  may  not  moulder  away 
for  want  of  looking  after.  What  do  you  in  Shropshire  when 
so  many  fine  pictures  are  a-going  a-going  every  day  in  Lon- 
don ?  Monday  I  visit  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne's  in  Berke- 
ley Square.  Catalogue,  '2s.  6d.  Leonardos  in  plenty. 
Some  other  day  this  week  I  go  to  see  Sir  Wm.  Young's  in 
Stratford  Place.  Hulse's,  of  Blackheath,  are  also  to  be  .sold 
this  month,  and  in   May,  the  first  private  collection  in  Eu- 


94  FINAL    MEBIORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LABIB. 

rope,  Welbore  Ellis  Agar's.  And  there  are  you  perverting 
Nature  in  lying  landscapes,  filched  from  old  rusty  Titians, 
such  as  1  can  scrape  up  here  to  send  you,  with  an  additament 
from  Shropsliire  nature  thrown  in  to  make  the  whole  look 
unnatural.  I  am  afraid  of  your  mouth  watering  when  I  tell 
you  that  Manning  and  I  got  into  Angerstein's  on  Wednesday. 
Mo7i  Dieu  f  Such  Claudes  !  Four  Claudes  bought  for  more 
than  10,000Z.  (those  who  talk  of  Wilson  being  equal  to 
Claude  are  either  mainly  ignorant  or  stupid)  ;  one  of  them 
was  perfectly  miraculous.  What  colors  short  of  bond  fide 
sunbeams  it  could  be  painted  in,  I  am  not  earthly  colorman 
enough  to  say ;  but  I  did  not  think  it  had  been  in  the  possi- 
bility of  things.  Then,  a  music  piece  of  Titian — a  thousand 
pound  picture — five  figures  standing  behind  a  piano,  the  sixth 
playing ;  none  of  the  heads,  M.  observed,  indicating  great 
men,  nor  affecting  it,  but  so  sweetly  disposed ;  all  leaning 
separate  ways,  but  so  easy,  like  a  flock  of  some  divine  shep- 
herd ;  the  coloring,  like  the  economy  of  the  picture,  so  sweet 
and  harmonious — as  good  as  Shakspeare's  "  Twelfth  Night," 
almost,  that  is.  It  will  give  you  a  love  of  order,  and  cure 
you  of  restless,  fidgety  passions  for  a  week  after — more  mu- 
sical than  the  music  which  it  would,  but  cannot,  yet  in  a 
manner  does,  show.  I  have  no  room  for  the  rest.  Let  me 
say,  Angerstein  sits  in  a  room — his  study,  (only  that  and  the 
library  are  shown,)  when  he  wi'ites  a  common  letter  as  I  am 
doing,  surrounded  with  twenty  pictures  worth  60,000Z.  What 
a  luxury  !  Apicius  and  Heliogabalus,  hide  your  diminished 
heads  !  Yours,  my  dear  painter, 

C.  Lamb. 

Hazlitt  married  Miss  Sarah  Stoddart,  sister  of  the  present 
Sir  John  Stoddart,  who  became  very  intimate  with  Lamb  and 
his  sister.  To  her  Lamb,  on  the  11th  December,  1806,  thus 
communicated  the  failure  of  "  Mr.  H." 


TO    MRS.    HAZLITT. 

Wth  Dec. 

Don't  mind  this  being  a  queer  letter.     I  am  in  haste,  and 
taken  up  by  visitors,  condolers,  &;c. 


God  bless  you. 


letters  to  wordsworth.  95 

Dear  Saraji, 

Mary  is  a  little  cut  at  the  ill-success  of"  Mr.  11.," 
which  came  out  last  night,  and  failed.  1  know  you'll  be 
sorry,  but  never  mind.  We  are  determined  not  to  be  cast 
down.  I  am  going  to  leave  off  tobacco,  and  then  we  must 
thrive.     A  smoking  man  must  write  smoky  farces. 

Mary  is  pretty  well,  but  I  persuaded  her  to  let  me  write. 
We  did  not  apprise  you  of  the  coming  out  of"  Mr.  li.,"  for 
fear  of  ill  luck.  You  were  better  out  of  the  house.  If  it 
hud  taken,  your  partaking  of  our  good  luck  would  have  been 
one  of  our  greatest  joys.  As  it  is,  we  shall  expect  you  at 
the  time  you  mentioned,  but  whenever  you  come,  you  shall 
be  most  welcome. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Sarah, 

Yours,  most  truly, 

C.  L. 

Mary  is  by  no  means  unwell,  but  I  made  her  let  me 
write. 

The  following  is  Lamb's  account  of  the  same  calamity, 
addressed 


TO    MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

Mary's  love  to  all  of  you.     I  wouldn't  let  her  write. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  Wth  Dec. 

"  Mr.  H."  came  out  last  night,  and  failed.  I  had 
many  fears.  The  subject  was  not  substantial  enough.  John 
Bull  must  have  solider  fare  than  a  letter.  We  are  pretty 
stout  about  it ;  have  had  plenty  of  condoling  friends ;  but, 
after  all,  we  had  rather  it  should  have  succeeded.  You  will 
see  the  prologue  in  most  of  the  morning  papers.  It  was  re- 
ceived with  such  shouts  as  I  never  witnessed  to  a  prologue. 
It  was  attempted  to  be  encored.  How  hard  ! — a  thing  I  did 
merely  as  a  task,  because  it  was  wanted,  and  set  no  great 
store  by  ;  and  "  Mr.  H."  ! ! 

A  hundred  hisses  !     (Hang  the  word,  I  write  it  like  kiss 
— how  different !)  a  hundred  hisses   outweigh   a  thousan 


96  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

claps.     The    former    coine   more   directly    from  the    heart. 
Well,  'tis  withdrawn,  and  there  is  an  end. 

Better  luck  to  us, 
[Turn  over.]  C.    LaMB. 

P.  S.  Pray,  when  any  of  you  write  to  the  Clarksons, 
give  our  kind  loves,  and  say  we  shall  not  be  able  to  come  and 
see  them  at  Christmas,  as  I  shall  have  but  a  day  or  two,  and 
tell  them  we  bear  our  mortification  pretty  well. 

Hazlitt,  coming  to  reside  in  town,  became  a  frequent 
guest  of  Lamb's,  and  a  brilliant  ornament  of  the  parties  which 
Lamb  now  began  to  collect  on  Wednesday  evenings.  He 
seems,  in  the  beginning  of  1808,  to  have  sought  solitude  in  a 
little  inn  on  Salisbury  Plain,  to  which  he  became  deeply  at- 
tached, and  which  he  has  associated  with  some  of  his  pro- 
foundest  meditations  ;  and  some  fantastic  letter,  in  the  nature 
of  a  hoa.\,  having  puzzled  his  father,  who  expected  him  at 
Wem,  caused  some  inquiries  of  Lamb  respecting  the  paint- 
er's retreat,  to  which  he  thus  replied  in  a  letter  to 


THE    REV.    MR.    HAZLITT. 

Temple,  I8th  Feb.,  1808. 

Sir, 

I  am  truly  concerned  that  any  mistake  of  mine 
should  have  caused  you  uneasiness,  but  I  hope  we  have  got 
a  clue  to  William's  absence,  which  may  clear  up  all  appre- 
hensions. The  people  where  he  lodges  in  town  have  re- 
ceived direction  from  him  to  forward  some  linen  to  a  place 
called  Winterslow,  in  the  county  of  Wilts  (not  far  from  Sa- 
lisbury), where  the  lady  lives  whose  cottage,  pictured  upon 
a  card,  if  you  opened  my  letter,  you  have  doubtless  seen,  and 
though  we  have  had  no  explanation  of  the  mystery  since,  we 
shrewdly  suspect  that  at  the  time  of  writing  that  letter  which 
has  given  you  all  this  trouble,  a  certain  son  of  yours  (who  is 
both  painter  and  author)  was  at  her  elbow,  and  did  assist  in 
framing  that  very  cartoon  which  was  sent  to  amuse  and  mis- 
lead us  in  town  as  to  the  real  place  of  his  destination. 

And  some  words  at  the  back  of  the  said  cartoon,  which  we 
had  not  marked  so  narrowly  before,  by  the  similarity  of  the 


MISS    LAMB    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  97 

handwriting  to  William's,  do  very  much  confirm  the  suspi- 
cion. If  our  theory  be  right,  they  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
their  jest,  and  I  am  afraid  you  have  paid  for  it  in  anxiety. 

But  I  hope  your  uneasiness  will  now  be  removed,  and  you 
will  pardon  a  suspense  occasioned  by  Love,  who  does  so 
many  worse  mischiefs  every  day. 

The  letter  to  the  people  where  William  lodges,  says, 
moreover,  that  he  shall  be  in  town  in  a  fortnight. 

My  sister  joins  in  respect  to  you  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  and 
in  our  kindest  remembrances  and  wishes  for  the  restoration 
of  Peggy's  health. 

I  am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

C.  Lamb. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt  afterwards  took  up  their  temporary 
abode  at  Winterslow,  to  which  place  Miss  Lamb  addressed 
the  following  letter,  containing  interesting  details  of  her  own 
and  her  brother's  life,  and  illustrating  her  own  gentle 
character. 

TO  MRS.    HAZLITT. 

Mi'  DEAR  Sarah, 

1  hear  of  you  from  your  brother  ;  but  you  do  not 
write  yourself,  nor  does  Hazlitt.  I  beg  that  one  or  both  of 
you  will  amend  this  fault  as  speedily  as  possible,  for  I  am 
very  anxious  to  hear  of  your  health.  I  hope,  as  you  say 
nothing  about  your  fall  to  your  brother,  you  are  perfectly 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  it. 

You  cannot  think  how  very  much  we  miss  you  and  H.  of 
a  Wednesday  evening — all  the  glory  of  the  night,  I  may  say, 

is  at  an  end.     P makes  his  jokes,  and  there  is  no  one  to 

applaud  him  ;   R argues,  and  there  is  no  one  to  oppose 

him. 

The  worst  miss  of  all,  to  me,  is,  that  when  we  are  in  the 
dismals  there  is  now  no  hope  of  relief  from  any  quarter  what- 
soever. Hazlitt  was  most  brilliant,  most  ornamental,  as  a 
Wednesday  man,  but  he  was  a  more  useful  one  on  common 
days,  when  he  dropt  in  after  a  fit  of  the  glooms.  The  Shef- 
fington  is  quite  out  now,  my  brother  having  got  merry  with 
claret  and  Tom  Sheridan.  This  visit,  and  the  occasion  of  it, 
5 


98  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

is  a  profound  secret,  and  therefore  I  tell  it  to  nobody  but  you 
and  Mrs.  Reynolds.  Through  the  medium  of  Wi'oughton, 
there  came  an  invitation  and  proposal  from  T.  S.,  that  C.  L. 
should  write  some  scenes  in  a  speaking  pantomime,  the  other 
parts  of  which  Tom  now,  and  his  father  formerly,  have  manu- 
factured between  them.  So  in  the  Christmas  holidays  my 
brother,  and  his  two  great  associates,  we  expect  will  be  all 
three  damned  together ;  that  is,  I  mean  if  Charles's  share, 
which  is  done  and  sent  in,  is  accepted. 

I  left  this  unfinished  yesterday,  in  the  hope  that  my 
brother  would  have  done  it  for  me.  His  reason  for  refusing 
me  was  "  no  exquisite  reason,"  for  it  was  becaude  he  must 
write  a  letter  to  Manning  in  three  or  four  weeks,  and  there- 
fore "  he  could  not  be  always  writing  letters,"  he  said.  I 
wanted  him  to  tell  your  husband  about  a  great  work  which 
Godwin  is  going  to  publish  to  enlighten  the  world  once  more, 
and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  make  out  what  it  is.  He  (Godwin) 
took  his  usual  walk  one  evening,  a  fortnight  since,  to  the  end 
of  Hatton  Garden  and  back  again.  During  that  walk  a 
thought  came  into  his  mind,  which  he  instantly  sat  down  and 
improved  upon,  till  he  brought  it,  in  seven  or  eight  days,  into 
the  compass  of  a  reasonable  sized  pamphlet. 

To  propose  a  subscription  to  all  well-disposed  people  to 
raise  a  certain  sum  of  money,  to  be  expended  in  the  care  of 
a  cheap  monument  for  the  former  and  the  future  great  dead 
men  ;  the  monument  to  be  a  white  cross,  with  a  wooden 
slab  at  the  end,  telling  their  names  and  qualifications.  This 
wooden  slab  and  white  cross  to  be  perpetuated  to  the  end  of 
time  ;  to  survive  the  fall  of  empires,  and  the  destruction  of 
cities,  by  means  of  a  map,  which,  in  case  of  an  insurrection 
among  the  people,  or  any  other  cause  by  which  a  city  or 
country  may  be  destroyed,  was  to  be  carefully  preserved ; 
and  then,  when  things  got  again  into  their  usual  order,  the 
white-cross-wooden-slab-makers  were  to  go  to  work  again 
and  set  the  wooden  slabs  in  their  former  places.  This,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  tell  you,  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  it ; 
but  it  is  written  remarkably  well — in  his  very  best  manner 
— for  the  proposal  (which  seems  to  me  very  like  throwing 
salt  on  a  sparrow's  tail  to  catch  him)  occupies  but  half  a 
page,  which  is  followed  by  very  fine  writing  on  the  benefits 
pe  conjectures  would  follow  if  it  were  done ;  very  excellent 


MISS    LAMB    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  99 

thoughts  on  death,  and  our  feelings  concerning  dead  friends, 
and  the  advantages  an  old  country  has  over  a  new  one,  even 
in  the  slender  memorials  we  have  of  great  men  who  once 
flourished. 

Charles  is  come  home  and  wants  his  dinner,  and  so  the 
dead  men  must  be  no  more  thought  of.  Tell  us  how  you  go 
on,  and  how  you  like  Winterslow  and  winter  evenings. 
Knowles  has  not  got  back  again,  but  ho  is  in  belter  spirits. 
John  Hazlitt  was  here  on  Wednesday.     Our  love  to  Hazlitt. 

Yours,  affectionately, 

M.  Lamb. 
Saturday. 

To  this  letter  Charles  added  the  following  postscript: — 

There  came  this  morning  a  printed  prospectus  from  "  S. 
T.  Coleridge,  Grasmere,"  of  a  weekly  paper,  to  be  called 
'The  Friend;'  a  flaming  prospectus.  I  have  no  time  to 
give  the  heads  of  it.  To  commence  first  Saturday  in  Janu- 
ary. There  came,  also,  notice  of  a  turkey  from  Mrs.  Clark- 
son,  which  I  am  more  sanguine  in  expecting  the  accomplish- 
ment of  than  I  am  of  Coleridge's  prophecy. 

C.  Lamb. 

In  the  following  summer.  Lamb,  with  his  sister,  spent  his 
holidays  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  at  Winterslow.  Their 
feelings  on  returning  home  are  developed  in  the  following 
letter  of 

MISS   LAMB  TO  MRS.   HAZLITT. 

My  DEAR  Sarah, 

The  dear,  quiet,  lazy,  delicious  month  we  spent 
with  you  is  remembered  by  me  with  such  regret  that  I  feel 
quite  discontented,  and  Winterslow-sick.  I  assure  you  I 
never  passed  such  a  pleasant  time  in  the  country  in  my  life, 
both  in  the  house  and  out  of  it — the  card-playing  quarrels, 
and  a  few  gaspings  for  breath,  after  your  swift  footsteps  up 
the  high  hills,  excepted ;  and  these  draw-backs  are  not  un- 
pleasant in  the  recollection.  We  have  got  some  salt  butter, 
to  make  our  toast  seem  like  yours,  and  we  have  tried  to  eat 


100  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

meat  suppers,  but  that  would  not  do,  for  we  left  our  appetites 
behind  us,  and  the  dry  loaf,  which  offended  you,  now  comes 
in  at  night  unaccompanied  ;  but,  sorry  am  I  to  add,  it  is  soon 
followed  by  the  pipe.  We  smoked  the  very  first  night  of  our 
arrival. 

Great  news  !  I  have  just  been  interrupted  by  Mr.  Daw, 
who  came  to  tell  me  he  was  yesterday  elected  a  Royal 
Academician.  He  said  none  of  his  own  friends  voted  for 
him ;  he  got  it  by  strangers,  who  were  pleased  with  his  pic- 
ture of  Mrs.  White. 

Charles  says  he  does  not  believe  Northcote  ever  voted  for 
the  admission  of  any  one.  Though  a  very  cold  day.  Daw 
was  in  a  prodigious  perspiration  for  joy  at  his  good  fortune. 

More  great  news !  My  beautiful  green  curtains  were 
put  up  yesterday,  and  all  the  doors  listed  with  green  baize, 
and  four  new  boards  put  to  the  coal-hole,  and  fastening  hasps 
put  to  the  "window,  and  my  dyed  Manning  silk  cut  out. 

We  had  a  good  cheerful  meeting  on  Wednesday,  much 
talk  of  Winterslow,  its  woods  and  its  sunflowers.     I  did  not 

so  much  like  P at  Winterslow,  as  I  now  like  him  for 

having  been  with  us  at  Winterslow.  We  roasted  the  last 
"  Beech  of  oily  nut  prolific,"  on  Friday,  at  the  Captain's. 
Nurse  is  now  established  in  Paradise,  alias  the  Incurable 
ward  of  Westminster  Hospital.  I  have  seen  her  sitting  in 
most  superb  state,  surrounded  by  her  seven  incurable  com- 
panions. They  call  each  other  ladies ;  nurse  looks  as  if  she 
would  be  considered  as  the  first  lady  in  the  ward ;  only  one 
seemed  at  all  to  rival  her  in  dignity. 

A  man  in  the  India  House  has  resigned,  by  which  Charles 
will  get  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  White  has  prevailed  on 
him  to  write  some  more  lottery  puffs  ;  if  that  ends  in  smoke, 
the  twenty  pounds  is  a  sure  card,  and  has  made  us  very 
joyful. 

I  continue  very  well,  and  return  you  very  sincere  thanks 
for  my  good  health  and  improved  looks,  which  have  almost 
made  Mrs. die  with  envy.  She  longs  to  come  to  Win- 
terslow as  much  as  the  spiteful  elder  sister  did  to  go  to  the 
well  for  a  gift  to  spit  diamonds. 

Jane  and  I  liave  agreed  to  boil  a  round  of  beef  for  your 
suppers  when  you  come  to  town  again.  She  (Jane)  broke 
two  of  the  Hogarth's  glasses  while  we  were  away,  whereat  I 


LETTER    TO    HAZLITT.  101 

made  a  great  noise.  Farewell.  Love  to  William,  and 
Charles's  love  and  good  wishes  for  the  speedy  arrival  of  the 
"  Life  of  Holcroft,"  and  the  bearer  thereof. 

Yours,  most  alTectionately, 

M.  Lamb. 

Tuesday. 

Charles  told  Mrs. ,  Hazlitt  had  found   a  well  in  his 

garden,   which,  water   being  scarce  in  your  county,  would 
bring  him  in  two  hundred  a  year  ;   and  she  came  in  great 
haste,  the  next  morning,  to  ask  me  if  it  were  true. 
Your  brother  and  sister  are  quite  well. 


The  country  excursions,  with  which  Lamb  sometimes  oc- 
cupied his  weeks  of  vacation,  were  taken  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling, often  foregone,  and  finally  given  up  in  consequence  of 
the  sad  effects  which  the  excitements  of  travel  and  change 
produced  in  his  beloved  companion.  The  following  refers  to 
one  of  tiiese  disasters  : 


to  bir.  hazlitt. 

Dear  H., 

Epistemon  is  not  well.  Our  pleasant  excursion 
has  ended  sadly  for  one  of  us.  You  will  guess  I  mean  my 
sister.  She  got  home  very  well  (I  was  very  ill  on  the  jour- 
ney) and  continued  so  till  Monday  night,  when  her  complaint 
came  on,  and  she  is  now  absent  from  home. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  all  well.  I  think  I  shall  be 
mad  if  I  take  any  more  journeys  with  two  experiences 
against  it.  I  find  all  well  here.  Kind  remembrances  to 
Sarah, — have  just  got  her  letter. 

H.  Robinson  has  been  to  Blenheim.  He  says  you  will 
be  sorry  to  liear  that  we  should  not  have  asked  for  the  Titian 
Gallery  there.  One  of  his  friends  knew  of  it,  and  asked  to 
see  it.     It  is  never  shown  but  to  those  who  inquire  for  it. 

The  pictures  are  all  Titians,  Jupiter  and  Ledas,  Mars 
and  Venuses,  »fec.,  all  naked  pictures,  which  may  be  a  rea- 
son they  don't  show  it  to  females.     But  he  says  they  are  very 


102  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

fine ;  and  perhaps  it  is  shown  separately  to   put  another  fee 
into  the  shower's  pocket.     Well,  I  shall  never  see  it. 

I  have  lost  all  wish  for  sights.  God  bless  you.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you  in  London. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 
Thursday. 

About  the  year  1808,  Miss  Lamb  sought  to  contribute  to 
her  brother's  scanty  income  by  presenting  the  plots  of  some 
of  Shakspeare's  plays  in  prose,  with  the  spirit  of  the  poet's 
genius  interfused,  and  many  of  his  happiest  expressions  pre- 
served, in  which  good  work  Lamb  assisted  her  ;  though  he 
always  insisted,  as  he  did  in  reference  to  "  Mrs.  Leicester's 
School,"  that  her  portions  were  the  best.  The  following  let- 
ter refers  to  some  of  those  aids,  and  gives  a  pleasant  instance 
of  that  shyness  in  Hazlitt,  which  he  never  quite  overcame, 
and  which  afforded  a  striking  contrast  to  the  boldness  of  his 
published  thoughts. 


TO    MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

Mary  is  just  stuck  fast  in  "  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well." 
She  complains  of  having  to  set  forth  so  many  female  charac- 
ters in  boys'  clothes.  She  begins  to  think  Shakspeare  must 
have  wanted — Imagination.  I,  to  encourage  her,  for  she  of- 
ten faints  in  the  prosecution  of  her  great  work,  flatter  her 
with  telling  her  how  well  such  a  play  and  such  a  play  is 
done.  But  she  is  stuck  fast.  I  have  been  obliged  to  prom- 
ise to  assist  her.  To  do  this,  it  will  be  necessary  to  leave  off 
tobacco.  But  I  had  some  thoughts  of  doing  that  before,  for  I 
sometimes  think  it  does  not  agree  with  me.  W.  Hazlitt  is  in 
town.  I  took  him  to  see  a  very  pretty  girl,  professedly, 
where  there  were  two  young  girls — the  very  head  and  sum 
of  the  girlery  was  two  young  girls — they  neither  laughed, 
nor  sneered,  nor  giggled,  nor  whispered — but  they  were 
young  girls — and  he  sat  and  frowned  blacker  and  blacker, 
indignant  that  there  should  be  such  a  thing  as  youth  and 
beauty,  till  he  tore  me  away  before  supper,  in  perfect  misery, 
and  owned  he  could  not  bear  young  girls;  they  drove  him 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  103 

mad.  So  I  took  him  to  my  old  nurse,  where  he  recovered 
perfect  tranquillity.  Independent  of  this,  and  as  I  am  not  a 
youn^  girl  myself,  he  is  a  great  acquisition  to  us.  He  is, 
rather  imprudently  I  think,  printing  a  political  pamphlet  on 
his  own  account,  and  will  have  to  pay  for  the  paper,  &:c. 
The  first  duty  of  an  author,  I  take  it,  is  never  to  pay  any 
thing.  But  non  cuivis  contigit  adirc  Corinlhum.  The  mana- 
gers, I  thank  my  stars,  have  settled  that  question  for  me. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

In  the  following  year.  Lamb  and  his  sister  produced  their 
charming  little  book  of  "  Poetry  for  Children,"  and  removed 
from  Mitre  Court  to  those  rooms  in  Inner  Temple  Lane, — 
most  dear  of  all  their  abodes  to  the  memory  of  their  ancient 
friends — where  first  I  knew  them.  The  change  produced  its 
natural  and  sad  etfect  on  Miss  Lamb,  during  whose  absence 
Lamb  addressed  the  foUowins:  various  letter 


to  mr.  coleridge. 

Dear  Coleridge, 

I  congratulate  you  on  the  appearance  of  The 
Friend.  Your  first  number  promises  well,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  the  succeeding  numbers  will  fulfill  the  promise.  I  had 
a  kind  letter  from  you  some  time  since,  which  I  have  left  un- 
answered. I  am  also  obliged  to  you,  I  believe,  for  a  review 
in  the  Annual,  am  I  not  ?  The  Monthly  Review  sneers  at 
me,  and  asks  "  if  Comus  is  not  good  enough  for  Mr.  Lamb  ?" 
because  I  have  said  no  good  serious  dramas  have  been  writ- 
ten since  the  death  of  Charles  the  First,  except  "  Samson 
Agonistes;"  so  because  they  do  not  know,  or  won't  remem- 
ber, that  Comus  was  written  long  before,  I  am  to  be  set  down 
as  an  undervuluer  of  Milton.  O,  Coleridge,  do  kill  those  re- 
views, or  they  will  kill  us  ;  kill  all  we  like  !  Be  a  friend  to 
all  else,  but  their  foe.  I  have  been  turned  out  of  my  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple  by  a  landlord  who  wanted  them  for  him- 
self, but  I  have  got  other  at  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  far 
more  commodious  and  roomy.  I  have  two  rooms  on  third 
floor  and  five  rooms  above,  with  an  inner  staircase  to  myself, 


104  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

and  all  new  painted,  &c.,  for  £30  a  year  !  I  came  into 
them  on  Saturday  week  ;  alas!  on  Monday  following,  Mary 
■was  taken  ill  with  fatigue  of  moving,  and  affected,  I  believe, 
by  the  novelty  of  the  home  ;  she  could  not  sleep  ;  and 'I  am 
left  alone  with  a  maid  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  and  she  has  a 
month  or  two's  sad  distraction  to  go  through.  What  sad  large 
pieces  it  cuts  out  of  life  ;  out  of  her  life,  who  is  getting  rather 
old  ;  and  we  may  not  have  many  years  to  live  together  !  I 
am  weaker,  and  bear  it  worse  than  I  ever  did.  But  I  hope 
we  shall  be  comfortable  by  and  by.  The  rooms  are  deli- 
cious, and  the  best  look  backwards  into  Hare  Court,  where 
there  is  a  pump  always  going.  Just  now  it  is  dry.  Hare 
Court's  trees  come  in  at  the  window,  so  that  it's  like  living  in 
a  garden.  I  try  to  persuade  myself  it  is  much  pleasanter 
than  Mitre  Court ;  but,  alas  !  the  household  gods  are  slow  to 
consecrate  a  new  mansion.  'J'hey  are  in  their  infancy  to 
me ;  I  do  not  feel  them  yet  ;  no  hearth  has  blazed  to  them 
yet.     How  I  hate  and  dread  new  places  ! 

I  was  very  glad  to  see  Wordsworth's  book  advertised ;  I 
am  to  have  it  to-morrow  lent  me,  and  if  Wordsworth  don't 
send  me  an  order  for  one  upon  Longman,  I  will  buy  it.  It  is 
greatly  extolled  and  liked  by  all  who  have  seen  it.  Let  me 
hear  from  some  of  you,  for  I  am  desolate.  I  shall  have  to 
send  you,  in  a  week  or  two,  two  volumes  of  Juvenile  Poetry, 
done  by  Mary  and  me  within  the  last  six  months,  and  that 
tale  in  prose  which  Wordsworth  so  much  liked,  which  was 
published  at  Christmas,  with  nine  others,  by  us,  and  has 
reached  a  second  edition.  There's  for  you !  We  have  al- 
most worked  ourselves  out  of  child's  work,  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Sometimes  I  think  of  a  drama,  but  I  have  no 
head  for  play-making  ;  I  can  do  the  dialogue,  and  that's  all. 
I  am  quite  aground  for  a  plan,  and  I  must  do  something  for 
money.  Not  that  I  have  immediate  wants,  but  I  have  pros- 
pective ones.  O  money,  money,  how  blindly  thou  hast  been 
worshiped,  and  how  stupidly  abused  !  Thou  art  health  and 
liberty,  and  strength,  and  he  that  has  thee  may  rattle  his 
pockets  at  the  foul  fiend  ! 

Nevertheless,  do  not  understand  by  this  that  I  have  not 
quite  enough  for  my  occasions  for  a  year  or  two  to  come. 
While  I  think  on  it,  Coleridge,  I  fetched  away  my  books 
which  you  had  at  the  Courier  Office,  and  I  found  all  but  a 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  105 

third  volume  of  the  old  plays,  containing  "  The  White  Devil," 
Grreen's  "  Tu  Quoque,"  and  the  "  Honest  Whore,"  perhaps 
the  most  valuable  volume  of  tliem  all — that  I  could  not  find. 
Pray,  if  you  can  remember  what  you  did  with  it,  or  where 
you  took  it  with  you  a  walking,  perhaps,  send  me  word,  for, 
to  use  the  old  plea,  it  spoils  a  set.  1  found  two  other  volumes 
(you  had  three),  the  "  Arcadia,"  and  Daniel,  enriched  with 
manuscript  notes.  I  wish  every  book  I  have  were  so  noted. 
They  have  thoroughly  converted  me  to  relish  Daniel,  or  to 
say  I  relish  him,  for,  after  all,  I  believe  I  did  relish  him. 
You  well  call  him  sober-minded.  Your  notes  are  excellent. 
Perhaps  you've  forgot  them.  I  have  read  a  review  in  the 
Quarterly,  by  Southey,  on  the  Missionaries,  which  is  most 
masterly.  I  only  grudge  it  being  there.  It  is  quite  beauti- 
ful. Do  remember  my  Dodsley  ;  and,  pray,  do  write,  or  let 
some  of  you  write.  Clarkson  tells  me  you  are  in  a  smoky 
house.  Have  you  cured  it  ?  It  is  hard  to  cure  any  thing  of 
smoking.  Our  little  poems  are  but  humble,  but  they  have  no 
name.  You  must  read  them,  remembering  they  were  task- 
work ;  and  perhaps  you  will  admire  the  number  of  subjects, 
all  of  children,  picked  out  by  an  old  Bachelor  and  an  old 
Maid.  Many  parents  would  not  have  found  so  many.  Have 
you  read  "  Celebs  ?"  It  has  reached  eight  editions  in  so 
many  weeks,  yet  literally  it  is  one  of  the  very  poorest  sort  of 
common  novels,  with  the  drawback  of  dull  religion  in  it. 
Had  the  religion  been  higli  and  flavored,  it  would  have  been 
something.  1  borrowed  this  '•  Celebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife  " 
of  a  very  careful,  neat  lady,  and  returned  it  with  this  stuff 
written  in  the  beginning  : — 

"  If  ever  I  marry  a  wife 

I'd  marry  a  landlord's  daughter, 
For  then  I  may  sit  in  the  bar, 

And  drink  cold  brandy-and-water." 

I  don't  expect  you  can  find  time  from  your  Friend  to 
write  to  me  much,  but  write  something,  foi;  there  has  been  a 
long  silence.  You  know  Holcroft  is  dead.  Godwin  is  well. 
He  has  written  a  pretty,  absurd  book  about  sepulchres.  He 
was  affronted  because  I  told  him  it  was  better  than  Hervey, 
but  not  so  good  as  Sir  T.  Browne.  This  letter  is  all  about 
books  ;  but  my  head  aches,  and  I  hardly  know  what  I  write  ; 
5* 


106  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

but  I  could  not  let  The  Friend  pass  without  a  congratulating 
epistle.  I  won't  criticise  till  it  comes  to  a  volume.  Tell 
me  how  I  shall  send  my  packet  to  you  ? — by  what  convey- 
ance ? — by  Longman,  Short-man,  or  how  ?  Give  my  kindest 
remembrances  to  the  Wordsworths.  Tell  him  he  must 
give  me  a  book.  My  kind  love  to  Mrs.  W.  and  to  Dorothy 
separately  and  conjointly.  I  wish  you  could  all  come  and 
see  me  in  my  new  rooms.     God  bless  you  all. 

C  Li. 

A  journey  into  Wiltshire,  to  visit  Hazlitt,  followed  Miss 
Lamb's  recovery,  and  produced  the  following  letter  : — 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

Monday,  30th  Oct.  180§. 
Dear  Coleridge, 

I  have  but  this  moment  received  your  letter,  dated 
the  9th  instant,  having  just  come  off  a  journey  from  Wilt- 
shire, where  I  have  been  with  Mary  on  a  visit  to  Hazlitt. 
The  journey  has  been  of  infinite  service  to  her.  We  have 
had  nothing  but  sunshiny  days,  and  daily  walks  from  eight  to 
twenty  miles  a-day ;  have  seen  Wilton,  Salisbury,  Stone- 
henge,  &c.  Her  illness  lasted  but  six  weeks  ;  it  left  her 
very  weak,  but  the  country  has  made  us  whole.  We  came 
back  to  our  Hogarth  Room.  I  have  made  several  acquisi- 
tions since  you  saw  them,  and  found  Nos.  8,  9,  10  of  The, 
Friend.  The  account  of  Luther  in  the  Warteburg  is  as  fine 
as  any  thing  I  ever  read.*     God  forbid  that  a  man  who  has 

*  The  Warteburg  is  a  Castle,  standing  on  a  lofty  rock,  about  two 
miles  from  the  city  of  Eisenach,  in  which  Luther  was  confined,  under 
the  friendly  arrest  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  after  Charles  V.  had  pro- 
nounced against  him  the  Ban  in  the  Imperial  Diet ;  where  he  composed 
some  of  his  greatest  works,  and  translated  the  New  Testament  ;  and 
where  he  is  recorded  as  engaged  in  the  personal  conflict  with  the  Prince 
of  Darkness,  of  which  the  vestiges  are  still  shown  in  a  black  stain  on 
the  wall,  from  the  inkstand  hurled  at  the  Enemy.  In  the  Essay  refer- 
red to  Coleridge  accounts  for  the  story — depicting  the  state  of  the  great 
prisoner's  mind  in  the  most  vivid  colors — and  then  presenting  the  follow- 
ing picture,  which  so  nobly  justifies  Lamb's  eulogy,  that_I  venture  to  gra- 
tify myself  by  inserting  it  here. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  107 

sucli  things  to  say  should  be  silenced  for  want  of  100^.  This 
Custom-and-Duty-Age  would  have  made  the  Preacher  on  the 
Mount  take  out  a  license,   and  St.   Paul's  Epistles  not  mis- 

"  Methinks  I  see  him  sitting,  the  heroic  student,  in  his  chamber  in 
the  Warteburg,  with  his  midnight  lamp  before  him,  seen  by  the  late 
traveler  in  the  distant  plain  o{  Bisckofsroda,  as  a  star  on  the  mountain  ! 
Below  it  lies  the  Hebrew  Bible  open,  on  which  he  gazes  ;  his  brow 
pressing  on  his  palm,  brooding  over  some  obscure  text,  which  he  desires 
to  make  plain  to  the  simple  boor  and  to  the  humble  artisan,  and  to  trans- 
fer its  whole  force  into  their  own  natural  and  living  tongue.  And  he 
himself  does  not  understand  it !  Thick  darkness,  lies  on  the  original 
text  ;  he  counts  the  letters,  he  calls  up  the  roots  of  each  separate  word, 
and  questions  them  as  the  familiar  Spirits  of  an  Oracle.  In  vain  ;  thick 
darkness  continues  to  cover  it  ;  not  a  ray  of  meaning  dawns  through  it. 
With  sullen  and  angry  hope  he  reaches  for  the  Vulgate,  his  old  and 
sworn  enemy,  the  treacherous  confederate  of  the  Roman  Antichrist, 
which  he  so  gladly,  when  he  can,  rebukes  for  idolatrous  falsehood,  that 
had  dared  place 

'  VVitliin  the  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations.' — 

Now — O  thought  of  humiliation — he  must  entreat  its  aid.  See!  there 
has  the  sly  spirit  of  apostacy  worked-in  a  phrase,  which  favors  the  doc- 
trine of  purgatory,  the  intercession  of  saints,  or  the  efficacy  of  prayers 
for  the  dead  ;  and  v/hat  is  worst  of  all,  the  interpretation  is  plausible. 
The  original  Hebrew  might  be  forced  into  this  meaning  :  and  no  other 
meaning  seems  to  lie  in  it,  none  hover  above  it  in  the  heights  of  alle- 
gory, none  to  lurk  beneath  it  even  in  the  depths  of  Cabala  !  This  is  the 
work  of  the  Tempter  ;  it  is  a  cloud  of  darkness  conjured  up  between  the 
truth  of  the  sacred  letters  and  the  eyes  of  his  understanding,  by  the  ma- 
lice of  the  evil-one,  and  fur  a  trial  of  his  faith  !  Must  he  then  at  length 
confess,  must  he  subscribe  the  name  of  Luther  to  an  exposition  which 
consecrates  a  weapon  for  the  hand  of  the  idolatrous  Hierarchy  ?  Never ! 
Never ! 

"  There  still  remains  one  auxiliary  in  reserve,  the  translation  of  the 
Seventy.  The  Alexandrine  Greeks,  anterior  to  the  Church  itself,  could 
intend  no  support  to  its  corruptions — the  Septuagint  will  have  profaned 
the  Altar  of  Truth  with  no  incense  for  the  nostrils  of  the  universal 
Bishop  to  snuff  up.  And  here  again  his  hopes  are  baffled  !  Exactly  at 
this  perplexed  passage  had  the  Greek  translator  given  his  understanding 
a  holiday,  and  .made  his  pen  supply  its  place.  O  honored  Luther !  as 
easily  mightest  thou  convert  the  whole  City  of  Rome,  with  the  Pope  and 
the  Conclave  of  Cardinals  inclusively,  as  strike  a  spark  of  light  from  the 
words,  and  nothing  but  words,  of  the  Alexandrine  version.  Disappoint- 
ed, despondent,  enraged,  ceasing  to  think,  yet  continuing  his  brain  on 
the  stretch  in  solicitation  of  a  thought  ;  and  gradually  giving  himself  up 
to  angry  fancies,  to  recollections  of  past  persecutions,  to  uneasy  fears, 
and  inward  defiances,  and  floating  images  of  the  Evil  Being,  their  sup- 


108  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

sible  without  a  stamp.  O  that  you  may  find  means  to  go 
on  !  But  alas !  where  is  Sir  G.  Beaumont  ? — Sothehy  ? 
What  is  become  of  the  rich  Auditors  in  Albemarle  Street  ? 
Your  letter  has  saddened  me. 

I  am  so  tired  with  my  journey,  being  up  all  night,  I  have 
neither  things  nor  words  in  my  power.  I  believe  I  expressed 
my  admiration  of  the  pamphlet.  Its  power  over  me  was 
like  that  which  Milton's  pamphlets  must  have  had  on  his 
contemporaries,  who  were  tuned  to  them.  What  a  piece 
of  prose  !  Do  you  hear  if  it  is  read  at  all  ?  I  am  out  of 
the  world  of  readers.  I  hate  all  that  do  read,  for  they  read 
nothing  but  reviews  and  new  books.  I  gather  myself  up 
into  the  old  things. 

I  have  put  up  shelves.  You  never  saw  a  book-case  in 
more  true  harmony  with  the  contents,  than  what  I  have  nailed 
up  in  a  room,  which,  though  new,  has  more  aptitudes  for 
growing  old  than  you  shall  often  see — as  one  sometimes  gets 
a  friend  in  the  middle  of  life,  who  becomes  an  old  friend  in 
a  short  time.  My  rooms  are  luxurious ;  one  is  for  prints 
and  one  for  books ;  a  summer  and  a  winter  parlor.  When 
shall  I  ever  see  you  in  them  ? 


posed  personal  author  ;  he  sinks,  without  perceiving  it,  into  a  trance  of 
slumber  ;  during  which  his  brain  retains  its  waking  energies,  excepting 
that  what  would  have  been  mere  thoughts  before,  now  (the  action  and 
counterweight  of  his  senses  and  of  their  impressions  being  withdrawn) 
shape  and  condense  themselves  into  things,  into  realities  !  Repeatedly 
half-wakening,  and  his  eyelids  as  often  re-closing,  the  objects  which 
really  surround  him  form  the  place  and  scenery  of  his  dream.  All  at 
once  he  sees  the  arch-fiend  coming  forth  on  the  wall  of  the  room,  from 
the  very  spot,  perhaps,  on  which  his  eves  had  been  fixed,  vacantly,  dur- 
ing the  perplexed  moments  of  his  former  meditation  :  the  inkstand 
which  he  had  at  the  same  time  been  using,  becomes  associated  with  it : 
and  in  that  struggle  of  rage,  which  in  these  distempered  dreams  almost 
constantly  precedes  the  heljjless  terror  by  the  pain  of  which  we  are 
finally  awakened,  he  imagines  ihat  he  hurls  it  at  the  intruder,  or  not  im- 
probably in  the  first  instant  of  awakening,  while  yet  both  his  imagina- 
tion and  his  eyes  are  possessed  by  the  dieam,  he  actually  hurls  it. 
Some  weeks  after,  perhaps,  during  which  interval  he  had  often  mused 
on  the  incident,  undetermined  whether  to  deem  it  a  visitation  of  Satan 
to  him  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  he  discovers  for  the  first  time  the 
dark  spot  on  his  wall,  and  receives  it  as  a  sign  and  pledge  vouchsafed  to 
him  of  the  event  having  actually  taken  place.' 


LKTTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  109 

Mr.  Wordsworth's  Essay  on  Epitaphs,  afterwards  ap- 
pended to  "The  Excursion,"  produced  the  following  let- 
ter : — 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

Friday,  I9th  Oct.  1810.    E.  I.  Ho. 

Dear  W., 

Mary  has  been  very  ill,  which  you  have  heard,  I 
suppose,  from  the  Montagues.  She  is  very  weak  and  low 
spirited  now.  I  was  much  pleased  with  your  continuation 
of  the  Essay  on  Epitaphs.  It  is  the  only  sensible  thing 
which  has  been  written  on  that  subject,  and  it  goes  to  the 
bottom.  In  particular,  I  was  pleased  with  your  translation 
of  that  turgid  epitaph  into  the  plain  feeling  under  it.  It  is 
perfectly  a  test.  But  what  is  the  reason  we  have  no  good 
epitaphs  after  all  ? 

A  very  striking  instance  of  your  position  might  be  found 
in  the  churchyard  of  Ditton-upon-Tliames,  if  you  know  such 
a  place.  Ditton-upon-Tliames  has  been  blessed  by  the  resi- 
dence of  a  poet,  Avlio,  for  love  or  money,  I  do  not  well  know 
which,  has  dignified  every  grave-stone  for  the  last  few  years 
with  bran  new  verses,  all  different,  and  all  ingenious,  with 
the  author's  name  at  the  bottom  of  each.  This  sweet  Swan 
of  Thames  has  artfully  diversified  his  strains  and  his 
rhymes;  the  same  thought  never  occurs  twice;  more  justly, 
perhaps,  as  no  thought  ever  occurs  at  all,  there  was  a  physi- 
cal impossibility  that  the  same  thought  should  recur.  It  is 
long  since  I  saw  and  read  these  inscriptions,  but  I  remember 
the  impression  was  of  a  smug  usher  at  his  desk  in  the  inter- 
vals of  instruction,  leveling  his  pen.  Of  death,  as  it  con- 
sists of  dust  and  worms,  and  mourners  and  uncertainty,  he 
had  never  thougiit ;  but  the  word  "  death"  he  had  often 
seen  separate  and  conjunct  with  other  words,  till  he  had 
learned  to  speak  of  all  its  attributes  as  glibly  as  Unitarian 
Belsham  will  discuss  you  the  attributes  of  the  word  "  God" 
in  a  pulpit  ;  and  will  talk  of  infinity  with  a  tongue  that  dangles 
from  a  skull  that  never  reached  in  thought  and  thorough 
imagination  two  inches,  or  further  than  from  his  hand  to 
his  mouth,  or  from  the  vestry  to  the  sounding-board  of  the 
pulpit. 


110  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

But  the  epitaphs  were  trim,  and  sprag,  and  patent,  and 
pleased  the  survivors  of  Thames  Ditton  above  the  old  mump- 
simus  of  "Afflictions  Sore."  ....  To  do  justice  though, 
it  must  be  owned  that  even  the  excellent  feeling  which  dic- 
tated this  dirge  when  new,  must  have  suffered  something  in 
passing  through  so  many  thousand  applications,  many  of 
ihem  no  doubt  quite  misplaced,  as  I  have  seen  in  Islington 
churchyard  (I  think)  an  Epitaph  to  an  infant,  who  died 
"  Mtatis  four  months,"  with  this  seasonable  inscription  ap- 
pended, "  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother ;  that  thy  days 
may  be  long  in  the  land,"  &;c.  Sincerely  wishing  your 
children  long  life  to  honor,  &c. 

I  remain, 

C.  Lamb. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH,    ETC.,    CHIEFLY    RESPECTING    WORDSWORTH's 

poems;  1815  to  1818. 


Thk  admirers  of  Wordsworth — few,  but  energetic  and 
hopeful — were  delighted,  and  his  opponents  excited  to  the  ex- 
pression of  their  utmost  spleen,  by  the  appearance,  in  1814, 
of  two  volumes  of  poems,  some  new  and  some  old,  and  subse- 
quently of  "  the  Excursion,"  in  the  quarto  form,  marked  by 
tlie  bitter  flippancy  of  Lord  Byron.  The  following  letters 
are  chiefly  expressive  of  Lamb's  feelings  respecting  these 
remarkable  works,  and  the  treatment  which  his  own  Review 
of  the  latter  received  from  Mr.  GifTord,  then  the  Editor  of  the 
Quarterly  Review,  for  which  it  was  written.  The  first,  how- 
ever, to  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  sister,  who  resided  with  the  poet 
at  Rydal,  relates  to  matters  of  yet  nearer  interest. 


TO  MISS  HUTCHINSON. 

Thursday,  I9tk  Oct.  1815. 
Dear  Miss  H., 

I  am  forced  to  be  the  replier  to  your  letter,  for  Mary 
has  been  ill,  and  gone  from  home  these  five  weeks  yesterday. 
She  has  left  me  very  lonely,  and  very  miserable.  I  stroll 
about,  but  there  is  no  rest  but  at  one's  own  fireside,  and  there 
is  no  rest  for  me  there  now.  I  look  forward  to  the  worse 
half  being  past,  and  keep  up  as  well  as  I  can.  She  has  be- 
gun to  show  some  favorable  symptoms.  The  return  of  her 
disorder  has  been  frightfully  soon  this  time,  with  scarce  a  six 
months'  interval.  I  am  almost  afraid  my  worry  of  spirits 
about  the  E.  L  House  was  partly  the  cause  of  her  illness, 


112  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

but  one  always  imputes  it  to  the  cause  next  at  hand  ;  more 
probably  it  comes  from  some  cause  we  have  no  control  over, 
or  conjecture  of.  It  cuts  such  great  slices  out  of  the  time, 
the  little  time,  we  shall  have  to  live  together.  I  don't  know 
but  the  recurrence  of  these  illnesses  might  help  me  to  sustain 
her  death  better  than  if  we  had  had  no  partial  separations. 
But  I  won't  talk  of  death.  I  will  imagine  us  immortal,  or 
forget  that  we  are  otherwise.  By  God's  blessing,  in  a  few 
weeks  we  may  be  taking  our  meal  together,  or  sitting  in  the 
front  row  of  the  Pit  at  Drury  Lane,  or  taking  our  evening 
walk  past  the  theatres,  to  look  at  the  outside  of  them,  at  least, 
if  not  to  be  tempted  in.  Then  we  forget  we  are  assailable; 
we  are  strong  for  the  time  as  rocks  ; — "  the  wind  is  temper- 
ed to  the  shorn  lambs."  Poor  C.  Lloyd,  and  poor  Priscilla ! 
I  feel  I  hardly  feel  enough  for  him  ;  my  own  calamities  press 
about  me,  and  involve  me  in  a  thick  integument  not  to  be 
reached  at  by  other  folk's  misfortunes.  But  I  feel  all  I  can 
— all  the  kindness  I  can,  towards  you  all — God  bless  you  ! 
I  hear  nothing  from  Coleridge. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

The  following  three  letters  best  speak  for  themselves  : — 


to  mr.  wordsworth. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

Thanks  for  the  books  you  have  given  me  and  for 
all  the  books  you  mean  to  give  me.  I  will  bind  up  the  Po- 
litical Sonnets  and  Ode  according  to  your  suggestion.  I 
have  not  bound  the  poems  yet.  I  wait  till  people  have  done 
borrowing  them.  I  think  I  shall  get  a  chain  and  chain  them 
to  my  slielves,  more  Bod/eiano,  and  people  may  come  and 
read  tliem  at  chain's  length.  For  of  those  who  borrow,  some 
read  slow  ;  some  mean  to  read  but  don't  read  ;  and  some  nei- 
ther read  nor  mean  to  read,  but  borrow  to  leave  you  an  opin- 
ion of  their  sagacity.  I  must  do  my  money-borrowing  friends 
the  justice  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  of  this  caprice  or  wan- 
tonness of  alienation  in  them.  When  they  borrow  my  money 
they  never  fail  to  make  use  of  it.     Coleridge  has  been  here 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  113 

about  a  fortnight.  HL^  health  is  tolerable  at  present,  though 
beset  with  temptations.  In  the  first  place,  the  Covent  Garden 
Manager  has  declined  accepting  his  Tragedy,  though  (having 
read  it)  I  see  no  reason  upon  earth  why  it  might  not  have 
run  a  very  fair  chance,  though  it  certainly  wants  a  promi- 
nent part  for  a  Miss  O'Neil  or  a  Mr.  Kean.  However,  he  is 
going  to-day  to  write  to  Lord  Byron  to  get  it  to  Drury. 
Should  you  see  Mrs.  C,  who  has  just  written  to  C.  a  letter, 
which  I  have  given  him,  it  will  be  as  well  to  say  nothing 
about  its  fate,  till  some  answer  is  shaped  from  Drury.  He 
has  two  volumes  printing  together  at  Bristol,  both  finished  as 
far  as  the  composition  goes;  the  latter  containing  his  fugitive 
poems,  the  former  his  Literary  Life.  Nature,  who  conducts 
every  creature,  by  instinct,  to  its  best  end,  has  skillfully 
directed  C.  to  take  up  his  abode  at  a  Chymist's  Laboratory 
in  Norfolk-street.  She  might  as  well  have  sent  a  Helluo 
Lihrornm  for  cure  to  the  Vatican.  God  keep  him  inviolate 
among  the  traps  and  pitfalls  !  He  has  done  pretty  well  as  yet. 

Tell  Miss  H.  my  sister  is  every  day  wishing  to  be  quietly 
sitting  down  to  answer  heri-"ery  kind  letter,  but  while  C.  stays 
she  can  hardly  find  a  quiet  time ;   God  bless  him  ! 

Tell  Mrs.  W.  her  postscripts  are  always  agreeable. 
They  are  so  legible  too.  Your  manual-graphy  is  terrible, 
dark  as  Lycophron.  "  Likelihood,''  for  instance,  is  thus 
typified *  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  constant  ma- 
king out  of  such  paragraphs  is  the  cause  of  that  weakness 
in  Mrs.  W.'s  eyes,  as  she  is  tenderly  pleased  to  express  it. 
Dorothy,  1  hear,  has  mounted  spectacles  ;  so  you  have  deoc- 
ulated  two  of  your  dearest  relations  in  life.  Well,  God  bless 
you,  and  continue  to  give  you  power  to  write  with  a  finger 
of  power  upon  our  hearts  what  you  fail  to  impress,  in  corres- 
ponding lucidness,  upon  our  outward  eye-sight ! 

Mary's  love  to  all  ;  she  is  quite  well. 

I  am  called  off  to  do  the  deposites  in  Cotton  Wool — but 
why  do  I  relate  this  to  you,  who  want  faculties  to  compre- 
hend the  great  mystery  of  deposits,  of  interest,  of  warehouse 
rent,  and  contingent  fund  ?     Adieu  ! 

C.  Lamb. 

*  Here  is  a  most  inimitable  scrawl. 


114  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

A  longer  letter  when  C.  is  gone  back  into  the  country, 
relating  his  success,  &c. — my  judgment  of  your  new  books, 
&;c.,  &c. — I  am  scarce  quiet  enough  while  he  stays. 

Yours  again,  C.  L. 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

The  conclusion  of  this  epistle  getting  gloomy,  I  have 
chosen  this  part  to  desire  OMr  kindest  loves  to  Mrs.  Words- 
worth and  to  Dorothea.  Will  none  of  you  ever  be  in  Lon- 
don again  ? 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

You  have  made  me  very  proud  with  your  succes- 
sive book  presents.  I  have  been  carefully  through  the  two 
volumes,  to  see  that  nothing  was  omitted  which  used  to  be 
there.  I  think  I  miss  nothing  but  a  character  in  antithetic 
manner,  which  I  do  not  know  why  you  left  out, — the  moral 
to  the  boys  building  the  giant,  the  omission  whereof  leaves 
it,  in  my  mind,  less  complete, — and  one  admirable  line  gone 
(or  something  come  instead  of  it,)  ''  the  stone-chat,  and  the 
g'ancing  sand-piper,"  which  was  a  line  quite  alive.  I  de- 
mand these  at  your  hand.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  not  sac- 
rificed a  verse  to  those  scoundrels.  1  would  not  have  had 
you  offer  up  the  poorest  rag  that  lingered  upon  the  stript 
shoulders  of  little  Alice  Fell,  to  have  atoned  all  their  malice; 
I  would  not  have  given  'em  a  red  cloak  to  save  their  souls. 
I  am  afraid  lest  the  substitution  of  a  shell  (a  flat  falsification 
of  the  history)  for  the  household  implement,  as  it  stood  at 
first,  was  a  kind  of  tub  thrown  out  to  the  beast,  or  rather 
tlirown  out  for  him.  The  tub  was  a  good  honest  tub  in  its 
place,  and  nothing  could  fairly  be  said  against  it.  You  said 
you  made  the  alteration  for  the  "  friendly  I'eader,"  but  the 
"malicious"  will  take  it  to  himself.  If  you  give  'em  an 
inch,  &c.  The  Preface  is  noble,  and  such  as  you  should 
write.  I  wish  I  could  set  my  name  to  it.  Imprimatur, — but 
you  have  set  it  there  yourself,  and  I  thank  you.  I  had  rather 
be  a  door-keeper  in  your  margin,  than  have  their  proudest 
text  swelling  with  my  eulogies.  The  poems  in  the  volumes, 
which  are  new  to  mc,  are  so  much  in  the  old  tone,  that  I 
hardly  received  them  as  novelties.     Of  those  of  which  I  had 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  115 


no  previous  knowledge,  the  "  Four  Yew  Trees,"*  and  the 
mysterious  company  which  you  have  assembled  there,  most 
struck  me — "  Death  the  Skeleton  and  Time  the  Shadow." 
It  is  a  sight  not  for  every  youthful  poet  to  dream  of;  it 
is  one  of  the  last  results  he  must  have  gone  thinking  on  for 
years  for.  "  Laodamia "  is  a  very  original  poem  ;  I 
mean  original  with  reference  to  your  own  manner.  You 
have  nothing  like  it.  I  should  have  seen  it  in  a  strange 
place,  and  greatly  admired  it,  but  not  suspected  its  deri- 
vation. 

Let  me  in  this  place,  for  I  have  writ  you  several  letters 
naming  it,  mention  tliat  my  brother,  who  is  a  picture-col- 
lector, has  picked  up  an  undoubtable  picture  of  Milton.  He 
gave  a  few  shillings  for  it,  and  could  get  no  history  with  it, 
but  that  some  old  lady  had  had  it  for  a  great  number  of  years. 
Its  age  is  ascertainable  from  the  state  of  the  canvas,  and  you 
need  only  see  it  to  be  sure  that  it  is  the  original  of  the  heads 
in  the  Tonson  editions  with  which  we  are  all  so  well  familiar. 
Since  I  saw  you  I  have  had  a  treat  in  the  reading  way 
which  comes  not  every  dayf — the  Latin  Poems  of  V.  Bourne, 
which  were  quite  new  to  me.  What  a  heart  that  man  had, 
all  laid  out  upon  town  scenes  ;  a  proper  counterpoise  to  some 
people's  rural  extravaganzas.  Why  I  mention  him  is,  that 
your  "  Power  of  Music  "  reminded  me  of  his  poem  of  "  The 
Ballad-singer  in  the  Seven  Dials."  Do  you  remember  his 
epigram  on  the  old  woman  who  taught  Newton  the  ABC, 
which,  after  all,  he  says,  he  hesitates  not  to  call  Newton's 
"Principia?"  I  was  lately  fatiguing  myself  with  going 
through  a  volume  of  fine  words  by  Lord  Thurlow  ;  excellent 
words  ;  and  if  the  heart  could  live  by  words  alone,  it  could 
desire  no  better  regales  ;  but  what  an  aching  vacuum  of  mat- 
ter !  I  don't  stick  at  the  madness  of  it,  for  that  is  only  a 
consequence  of  shutting  his  eyes  and  thinking  he  is  in  the 
age  of  the  old   Elizabeth  poets.     From  thence   I  turned  to 

*  The  poem  on  the  four  great  yew  trees  of  Borrowdale,  which  the 
poet  has,  by  the  most  potent  magic  of  the  imagination,  converted  into 
a  temple  for  the  ghastly  forms  of  Death  and  Time  "  to  meet  at  noon- 
tide,"— a  jjassage  surely  not  surpassed  in  any  English  poetry  written 
since  the  days  of  Milton. 

t  The  following  little  passage  about  Vincent  Bourne  has  been  pre- 
viously printed. 


116  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB- 

V.  Bourne.  What  a  sweet,  unpretending,  pretty-mannered, 
matter-fuJ.  creature  !  sucking  from  every  flower,  making  a 
flower  of  every  thing  ;  his  diction  all  Latin,  and  his  thoughts 
all  English.  Bless  him!  Latin  wasn't  good  enough  for  him. 
Why  wasn't  he  content  with  the  language  which  Gay  and 
Prior  wrote  in  ? 

I  am  almost  sorry  that  you  printed  extracts  from  those 
first  poems,*  or  that  you  did  not  print  them  at  length.  They 
do  not  read  to  me  as  they  do  all  together.  Besides,  they 
have  diminished  the  value  of  the  original  (which  I  possess) 
as  a  curiosity.  I  have  hitherto  kept  them  distinct  in  my 
mind  as  referring  to  a  particular  period  of  your  life.  All 
the  rest  of  your  poems  are  so  much  of  a  piece,  they  might 
have  been  written  in  the  same  week ;  these  decidedly  speak 
of  an  earlier  period.  They  tell  more  of  what  you  had  been 
reading.  We  were  glad  to  see  the  poems  "  by  a  female 
friend. "f  The  one  on  the  wind  is  masterly,  but  not  new  to 
us.  Being  only  three,  perhaps  you  might  have  clapt  a  D. 
at  the  corner,  and  let  it  have  past  as  a  printer's  mark  to  the 
uninitiated,  as  a  delightful  hint  to  the  better  instructed.  As 
it  is,  expect  a  formal  criticism  on  the  poems  of  your  female 
friend,  and  she  must  expect  it.  I  should  have  written  before, 
but  I  am  cruelly  engaged,  and  like  to  be.  On  Friday  I  was 
at  office  from  ten  in  the  morning  (two  hours  dinner  except) 
to  eleven  at  night ;  last  night  till  nine.  My  business  and 
office  business  in  general  have  inci'eased  so  ;  I  don't  mean  I 
am  there  every  night,  but  I  must  expect  a  great  deal  of  it.  I 
never  leave  till  four,  and  do  not  keep  a  holiday  now  once  in  ten 
times,  where  I  used  to  keep  all  red-letter  days,  and  some  five 
days  besides,  which  I  used  to  dub  Nature's  holidays.  I  have 
had  my  day.  I  had  formerly  little  to  do.  So  of  the  little 
that  is  left  of  life,  I  may  reckon  two-thirds  as  dead,  for  time 
that  a  man  calls  his  own  is  his  life ;  and  hard  work  and 
thinking  about  it  taint  even  the  leisure  hours — stain  Sunday 
with  workday  contemplations.  This  is  Sunday  ;  and  the 
head-ache  I  have  is  part  late  hours  at  work  the  two  preced- 
ing nights,  and  part  later  hours  over  a  consoling  pipe  after. 

*  The  "  Evening  Walk,"  and  "  Descriptive  Sketches  among  the 
Alps'' — VVorcisworih's  earliest  poems,  now  happily  restored  in  their  en- 
tirety to  their  proper  places  in  the  poet's  collected  works. 

t  By  Miss  Dorotiiea  Wordsworth. 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  117 

But  I  find  stupid  acquiescence  coming  over  me.  I  bend  to 
the  yoke,  and  it  is  almost  with  me  and  my  household  as  with 
the  man  and  his  consort.  "  To  them  each  evening  had  its 
glittering  star,  and  every  sabbath-day  its  golden  sun" — to 
such  straits  am  I  driven  for  the  life  of  life.  Time  !  O  that 
from  that  superfluity  of  holiday  leisure  my  youth  wasted, 
"  Age  might  but  take  some  hours  youth  wanted  not." 
N.B. — I  have  left  otT  spirituous  liquors  for  four  or  more 
months,  with  a  moral  certainty  of  its  lasting.*  Farewell, 
dear  Wordsworth  ! 


O  happy  Paris,  seat  of  idleness  and  pleasure  !  from  some 
returned  English  I  hear  that  not  such  a  thing  as  a  counting- 
house  is  to  be  seen  in  her  streets, — scarce  a  desk.  Earth- 
quakes swallow  up  this  mercantile  city  and  its  "  gripple  mer- 
chants," as  Drayton  hath  it — "  born  to  be  the  curse  of  this 
brave  isle  !"  1  invoke  this,  not  on  account  of  any  parsimo- 
nious habit  the  mercantile  interest  may  have,  but,  to  confess 
truth,  because  I  am  not  fit  for  an  office. 

Farewell,  once  more,  from  a  head  that  is  too  ill  to  method- 
ize, a  stomach  to  digest,  and  all  out  of  tune.  Better  harmonies 
await  you ! 

C.  Lamb. 

TO    MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

Excuse  this  maddish  letter;  I  am  too  tired  to  write  m 
forma. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

The  more  I  read  of  your  two  last  volumes,  the 
more  I  feel  it  necessary  to  make  my  acknowledgments  for 
them  in  more  than  one  short  letter.  The  "  Night  Piece,"  to 
which  you  refer  me,  I  meant  fully  to  have  noticed  ;  but,  the 

*  Alas  !  for  moral  certainty  in  this  moral  but  mortal  world. !  Lamb's 
resolution  to  leave  off  spirituous  liquors  was  a  brave  one  ;  but  he 
strengthened  and  rewarded  it  by'such  copious  libations  of  porter,  that 
his  sister,  lor  whose  sake  mainly  he  attempted  the  sacrifice,  entreated 
him  to  "  live  like  himself,"  and  in  a  few  weeks  after  this  assurance  he 
obeyed  her. 


118  FINAL    MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

fact  is,  I  come  so  fluttering  and  languid  from  business,  tired 
with  thoughts  of  it,  frightened  with  fears  of  it,  that  when  I 
get  a  few  minutes  to  sit  down  to  scribble  (an  action  of  the 
hand  now  seldom  natural  to  me — I  mean  voluntary  pen- 
work)  I  lose  all  presential  memory  of  what  I  had  intt  nded  to 
say,  and  say  what  I  can,  talk  about  Vincent  Bourne,  or  any 
casual  image,  instead  of  that  which  I  had  meditated,  (by  the 
way,  1  must  look  out  V.  B.  for  you.)  So  I  had  meant  to 
have  mentioned  "  Yarrow  Visited,"  with  that  stanza,  "  But 
thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair  ;"*  than  which  I  think  no 
lovelier  stanza  can  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  poetry  ; — 
yet  the  poem,  on  the  whole,  seems  condemned  tQ  leave  be- 
hind it  a  melancholy  of  imperfect  satisfaction,  as  if  you  had 
wronged  the  feeling  with  which,  in  what  preceded  it,  you 
had  resolved  never  to  visit  it,  and  as  if  the  Muse  had  de- 
termined, in  the  most  delicate  manner,  to  make  you,  and 
scarce  make  you,  feel  il.  Else,  it  is  far  superior  to  the  other, 
which  has  but  one  exquisite  verse  in  it,  the  last  but  one  or 
the  two  last — this  has  all  fine,  except,  perhaps,  that  that  of 
•'  studious  ease  and  generous  cares,"  has  a  little  tinge  of  the 
less  romantic  about  it.  "  The  farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale,"  is 
a  charming  counterpart  to  "  Poor  Susan,"  with  the  addition 
of  that  delicacy  towards  aberrations  from  the  strict  path, 
which  is  so  fine  in  the  "  Old  Thief  and  the  Boy  by  his  side," 
which  always  brings  water  into  my  eyes.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
worse  for  being  a  repetition;  "Susan"  stood  for  the  repre- 
sentative of  poor  Rus  in  TJrhe.  There  was  quite  enough  to 
stamp  the  moral  of  the  thing  never  to  be  forgotten ;  "  bright 
volumes  of  vapor,"  &c.  The  last  verse  of  Susan  was  to  be 
got  rid  of,  at  all  events.  It  threw  a  kind  of  dubiety  upon 
Susan's  moral  conduct.  Susan  is  a  servant  maid.  I  see 
her  trundling  her  mop,  and  contemplating  the  whirling  phe- 
nomenon through  blurred  optics;  but  to  term  her  "a  poor 
outcast  "  seems  as  much  as  to  say  that  poor  Susan  was  no 
better  than  she  should  be,  which  I  trust  was  not  what  you 
meant  to  express.  Robin  Goodfellow  supports  himself  with- 
out that  stick  of  a  moral  which  you  have  thrown  away ;  but 

*  "  But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  imagination. 
Dost  rival  in  tlie  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation." 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  119 

how  I  can  be  brought  in  felo  de  omiUcndo  for  tliat  ending  to 
the  Boy-builders  is  a  mystery.  I  can't  say  positively  now, — 
I  only  know  that  no  line  oftener  or  readier  occurs  than  that 
"  Light-hearted  boys,  I  will  build  up  a  Giant  with  you."  It 
comes  naturally,  with  a  warm  holiday,  and  the  freshness  of 
the  blood.  It  is  a  perfect  summer  amulet,  that  I  tie  round 
my  legs  to  quicken  their  motion  when  I  go  out  a  maying. 
(N.B.)  1  don't  often  go  out  a  maying  ; — Miist  is  the  tense 
with  me  now.  Do  you  take  the  pun  ?  Young  Romilly  is 
divine  ;*  the  reasons  of  his  mother's  grief  being  remediless — 
I  never  saw  parental  love  carried  up  so  high,  towering  above 
the  other  loves — Shakspearc  had  done  something  for  the  fdial, 
in  Cordelia,  and,  by  implication,  for  the  fatherly,  too,  in 
Lear's  resentment ;  he  left  it  for  you  to  explore  the  depths  of 
the  maternal  heart.  I  get  stupid,  and  flat,  and  flattering; 
what's  the  use  of  telling  you  what  good  things  you  have  writ- 
ten, or — I  hope  I  may  add — that  1  know  them  to  be  good  ? 
Apropos — when  I  first  opened  upon  the  just-mentioned  poem, 
in  a  careless  tone,  I  said  to  Mary,  as  if  putting  a  riddle, 
"  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  lene  .'"  To  which,  with  infinite 
presence  of  mind,  (as  the  jest-book  has  it),  she  answered,  "  a 
shoeless  pea."  It  was  the  first  she  ever  made.  Joke  the 
second  I  make.  You  distinguish  well,  in  your  old  preface, 
between  the  verses  of  Dr.  Johnson,  of  the  "  Man  in  the 
Strand,"  and  that  from  "  The  Babes  in  the  Wood."  I  was 
thinking,  whether  taking  your  own  glorious  lines — 


*  "  The  admirable  little  poem,  entitled,  "  The  Force  of  Prayer,"  de- 
veloping the  depths  of  a  widowed  mother's  grief,  whose  only  son  has 
been  drowned  in  attempting  to  leap  over  the  precipice  of  the  "  Wharf" 
at  Bolton  Abbey.  The  first  line,  printed  in  old  English  characters,  from 
some  old  English  ballad, 

"  Wliat  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene?" 

suggests  Miss  Lamb's  single  pun.     The  following  are  the  profoundest 
stanzas  among  those  which  excite  her  brother's  most  just  admiration  : — 

"  If  for  a  lover  the  lady  wept, 
A  solace  she  mipht  borrow 
From  death,    and  from  the  passion  of  death  ; — 
Old   Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 
"  She  weeps  not  for   the  wedding-day, 
Wliich  was  to  be  to-morrow  : 
Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 
Aod  bers  is  a  mother's  sorrow." 


120  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

"  And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Roniilly," 

which,  by  the  love  I  bear  my  own  soul,  I  think  have  no  pai'- 
allel  in  any,  the  best  old  ballads,  and  just  altering  it  to — 

"  And  from  the  great  respect  she  felt 
For  Sir  Samuel  Romilly," 

would  not  have  explained  the  boundaries  of  prose  expression, 
and  poetic  feeling,  nearly  as  well.  Excuse  my  levity  on 
such  an  occasion.  I  never  felt  deeply  in  my  life  if  that  po- 
em did  not  make  me,  both  lately  and  when  I  read  it  in  MS. 
No  Alderman  over  longed  after  a  haunch  of  buck  venison 
more  than  I  for  a  spiritual  taste  of  that  "  White  Doe"  you 
promise.  I  am  sure  it  is  superlative,  or  will  be  when  drest. 
i.  e.,  printed.  All  things  read  raw  to  me  in  MS. ;  to  com- 
pare magna  par  vis,  I  cannot  endure  my  own  writings  in  that 
state.  The  only  one  which  I  think  would  not  very  much 
win  upon  me  in  print,  is  Peter  Bell.  But  I  am  not  certain. 
You  ask  me  about  your  preface.  I  like  both  that  and  the 
supplement  without  an  exception.  The  account  of  what  you 
mean  by  imagination  is  very  valuable  to  me.  It  will  help 
me  to  like  some  things  in  poetry  better,  which  is  a  little  hu- 
miliating in  me  to  confess.  I  thought  I  could  not  be  in- 
structed in  that  science  (I  mean  the  critical),  as  I  once  heard 
old  obscene,  beastly  Peter  Pindar,  in  a  dispute  on  Milton,  say 
he  thought  that  if  he  had  reason  to  value  himself  upon  one 
thing  more  than  another,  it  was  in  knowing  what  good  verse 
was.  Who  looked  over  your  proof-sheets  and  left  ordebo  in 
that  line  of  Virgil? 

My  brother's  picture  of  Milton  is  very  finely  painted,  that 

is,  it  might  have  been  done  by  a  hand   next  to  Vandyke's. 

It  is  the  genuine  Milton,  and  an  object  of  quiet  gaze  for  the 

half  hour  at  a  time.     Yet  though  I  am  confident  there  is  no 

%etter  one  of  him,  the  face  does  not  quite  answer  to  Milton. 

There  is  a  tinge  of  petit  [or petite,  how  do  you  spell  it?) 
querulousness  about  it ;  yet,  hang  it !  now  1  remember  bet- 
ter, there  is  not ;  it  is  calm,  melancholy,  and  poetical.  One  of 
the  copies  of  the  poems  you  sent  has  precisely  the  same  pleas- 
ant blending  of  a  sheet  of  second  volume  with  a  sheet  of  first. 
I  think  it  was  page  245 ;  but  I  sent  it  and  had  it  rectified. 
It  gave  me,  in  the  first  impetus  of  cutting  the  leaves,  just  such 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  121 

a  cold  squelch  as  going  down  a  plausible  turning  and  sud- 
denly reading  "  No  tiioroughfare."  Robinson's  is  entire  :  I 
wish  you  could  write  more  criticism  about  Spenser,  &c.  I 
think  I  could  say  something  about  him  myself,  but,  bless  me  ! 
these  "merchants  and  their  spicy  drugs,"  which  are  so  har- 
monious to  sing  of,  they  lime-twig  up  my  poor  soul  and  body, 
till  I  shall  forget  I  ever  thought  myself  a  bit  of  a  genius  ! 
I  can't  even  put  a  few  thoughts  on  paper  for  a  newspaper. 
I  "engross"  when  I  should  "  pen"  a  paragraph.  Confusion 
blast  all  mercantile  transactions,  all  traffic,  exchange  of  com- 
modities, intercourse  between  nations,  all  the  consequent  civi- 
lization, and  wealth,  and  amity,  and  link  of  society,  and  get- 
ting rid  of  prejudices,  and  knowledge  of  the  face  of  the 
globe  ;  and  rot  the  very  firs  of  the  forest,  that  look  so  roman- 
tic alive,  and  die  into  desks  !      Vale. 

Yours,  dear  W.,  and  all  yours, 

C.  Lamb. 


The  following  letter  is  in  acknowledgment  of  an  early 
copy  of  "  The  Excursion." 


to  mr.  wordsworth. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  pleased  I  was  at  the  receipt 
of  the  great  armful  of  poetry  which  you  have  sent  me ;  and 
to  get  it  before  the  rest  of  the  world,  too  !  I  have  gone  quite 
through  with  it,  and  was  thinking  to  have  accomplished  that 
pleasure  a  second  time  before  I  wrote  to  thank  you,  but  M. 
B.  came  in  (while  we  were  out)  and  made  holy  theft  of  it, 
but  we  expect  restitution  in  a  day  or  two.  It  is  the  noblest 
conversational  poem  1  ever  read — a  day  in  Heaven.  The 
part  (or  rather  main  body)  which  has  left  the  sweetest  odor 
on  my  memory  (a  bad  term  for  the  remains  of  an  impression 
so  recent)  is  the  Tales  of  tlie  Church-yard  ; — the  only  girl 
among  seven  bretiiren,  born  out  of  due  time,  and  (not  duly) 
taken  away  again  ; — the  deaf  man  and  the  blind  man  ; — the 
Jacobite  and  Hanoverian,  whom  antipathies  reconcile ;  the 
Scarron-entry  of  the  rusticating  parson  upon  his  solitude ; — 
6 


122  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


these  were  all  new  to  me  too.  My  having  known  the  story 
of  Margaret  (at  the  beginning),  a  very  old  acquaintance, 
even  as  long  back  as  when  I  saw  you  first  at  Stowey,  did 
not  make  her  reappearance  less  fresh.  I  don't  know  what  to 
pick  out  of  this  best  of  books  upon  the  best  subjects  for  partial 
naming.  That  gorgeous  sunset  is  famous  ;*  I  think  it  must 
have  been  the  identical  one  we  saw  on  Salisbury  Plain  five 

years  ago,  that  drew  P from  the  card-table,  where  he 

had  sat  from  rise  of  tliat  luminary  to  its  unequalled  setting  ; 
but  neither  he  nor  I  had  gifted  eyes  to  see  those  symbols  of 
common  things  glorified,  such  as  the  prophets  saw  them  in 
that  sunset — the  wheel,  the  potter's  clay,  the  washpot,  the 
wine-press,  the  almond-tree  rod,  the  baskets  of  figs,  the  four- 
fold visaged  head,  the  throne,  and  Him  that  sat  thereon. "j" 

One  feeling  1  was  particularly  struck  with,  as  what  I  re- 
cognized so  very  lately  at  Harrow  Church  on  entering  it  af- 
ter a  hot  and  secular  day's  pleasure,  the  instantaneous  cool- 
ness and  calming,  almost  transforming  properties  of  a  country 
church  just  entered  ;  and  certain  fragrance  which  it  has,  ei- 
ther from  its  holiness,  or  being  kept  shut  all  the  week,  or  the 
air  that  is  let  in  being  pure  country,  exactly  what  you  have 
reduced  into  words — but  I  am  feeling  that  which  I  cannot 
express.  The  reading  your  lines  about  it  fixed  me  for  a 
time,  a  monument  in  Harrow  Church ;  do  you  know  it  ? 
with  its  fine  long  spire,  white  as  washed  marble,  to  be  seen, 
by  vantage  of  its  high  site,  as  far  as  Salisbury  spire  itself 
almost. 

I  shall  select  a  day  or  two  very  shortly,  when  I  am  cool- 
est in  brain,  to  have  a  steady  second  reading,  which  I  feel 
will  lead  to  many  more,  for  it  will  be  a  stock  book  with  me 
while  eyes  or  spectacles  shall  be  lent  me.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  noble  matter  about  mountain  scenery,  yet  not  so  much 

*  The  passage  to  which  the  allusion  applies  does  not  picture  a  sun- 
set, but  the  effect  of  sunlight  on  a  receding  mist  among  the  mountains, 
in  the  second  book  of  "  The  Excursion." 

t  "  Fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 
To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 
But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 
Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 
In  vision — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  powers. 
For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe," 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  123 

as  to  overpower  and  discountenance  a  poor  Londoner  or  south- 
countryman  entirely,  though  Mary  seems  to  have  felt  il  oc- 
casionally a  little  too  powerfully,  for  it  was  her  remark 
during  reading  it,  that  by  your  system  it  was  doubtful  wheth- 
er a  liver  in  towns  had  a  soul  to  be  saved.  She  almost 
trembled  for  that  invisible  part  of  us  in  her. 

Save  for  a  late  excursion  to  Harrow,  and  a  day  or  two 
on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  this  summer,  rural  images  were 
fast  fading  from  my  mind,  and  by  the  wise  provision  of  the 
Regent,  all  that  was  country-like  in  the  Parks  is  all  but 
obliterated.  The  very  color  of  green  is  vanished  ;  the  whole 
surface  of  Hyde  Park  is  dry,  crumbling  sand  [Arabia  Are- 
nosa),  not  a  vestige  or  liint  of  grass  ever  having  grown  there  ; 
booths  and  drinking  places  go  all  round  it  for  a  mile  and  a  half, 
I  am  confident — I  might  say  two  miles  in  circuit.  The 
stench  of  liquors,  bad  tobacco,  dirty  people  and  provisions, 
conquers  the  air,  and  we  are  stifled  and  sutlbcaled  in  Hyde 
Park. 

Lamb  was  delighted  with  the  proposition,  made  through 
Southey,  that  he  should  review  "  The  Excursion"  in  the 
"  Quarterly,"  though  he  had  never  before  attempted  con- 
temporaneous criticism,  and  cherished  a  dislike  to  it,  which 
the  event  did  not  diminish.  The  ensuing  letter  was  addressed 
while  meditating  on  his  office,  and  uneasy  lest  he  should  lose 
it  for  want  of  leisure. 


to  mr.  wordsworth. 

My  dear  W., 

I  have  scarce  time  or  quiet  to  explain  my  present 
situation,  how  unquiet  and  distracted  it  is,  owing  to  the  ab- 
sence of  some  of  my  compeers,  and  to  the  deficient  state  of 
payments  at  E.  L  H.,  owing  to  bad  peace  speculations  in  the 
calico  market.  (I  write  this  to  W.  W.,  Esq.,  Collector  of 
Stamp  Duties  for  the  conjoint  Northern  Counties,  not  to 
W.  W.,  Poet.)  I  go  back,  and  have  for  these  many  days 
past,  to  evening  work,  generally  at  the  rate  of  nine  hours  a 
day.  The  nature  of  my  work,  too,  puzzling  and  hurrying, 
has  so  shaken  my  spirits,  that  my  sleep  is  nothing  but  a  sue- 


124  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

cession  of  dreams  of  business  I  cannot  do,  of  assistants  that 
give  me  no  assistance,  of  terrible  responsibilities.  1  re- 
claimed your  book,  which  Hazlitt  has  mercilessly  kept,  only 
two  days  ago,  and  have  made  shift  to  read  it  again  with 
shattered  brain.  It  does  not  lose — rather,  some  parts  have 
come  out  with  a  prominence  I  did  not  perceive  before — but 
such  was  my  aching  head  yesterday  (Sunday),  that  the  book 
was  like  a  mountain  landscape  to  one  that  should  walk  on 
the  edge  of  a  precipice — I  perceived  beauty  dizzily.  Now, 
what  I  wonld  say  is,  that  I  see  no  prospect  of  a  quiet  half 
day,  or  hour  even,  till  this  week  and  the  next  are  past.  I 
then  hope  to  get  four  weeks'  absence,  and  if  llien  is  time 
enough  to  begin,  I  will  most  gladly  do  what  is  required, 
though  I  feel  my  inability,  for  my  brain  is  always  desultory, 
and  snatches  oft'  hints  from  things,  but  can  seldom  follow  a 
"  work"  methodically.  But  that  shall  be  no  excuse.  What 
I  beg  you  to  do  is,  to  let  me  know  from  Southey,  if  that  will 
be  time  enough  for  the  "  Quarterly,"  i.  e.,  suppose  it  done  in 
three  weeks  from  this  date  (19th  Sept.) ;  if  not,  it  is  my 
bounden  duty  to  express  my  regret,  and  decline  it.  Mary 
thanks  you,  and  feels  highly  grateful  for  your  "  Patent  of 
Nobility,"  and  acknowledges  the  author  of  "  The  Excursion" 
as  the  legitimate  fountain  of  honor.  We  both  agree,  that,  to 
our  feeling,  Ellen  is  best  as  she  is.  To  us  there  would  have 
been  something  repugnant  in  her  challenging  her  Penance  as 
a  dowry  ;  the  fact  is  explicable,  but  how  iew  are  those  to 
whom  it  would  have  been  rendered  explicit.  The  unlucky 
reason  of  the  detention  of  "  The  Excursion"  was  Hazlitt,  for 
whom  M.  Burney  borrowed  it,  and  I  only  got  it  on  Friday. 
His  remarks  had  some  vigor  in  them,*  particularly  some- 
thing about  an  old  ruin  being  too  modern  for  your  Primeval 
Nature,  and  about  a  lichen ;  I  forget  the  passage,  but  the 
whole  wore  an  air  of  despatch.  That  objection  which  M. 
Burney  had  imbibed  from  him  about  Voltaire,  I  explained  to 
M.  B.  (or  tried)  exactly  on  your  principle  of  its  being  a 
characteristic  speech. j"     That  it  was  no  settled  comparative 

*  This  refers  to  an  article  of  Hazlitt  on  "  The  Excursion,"  in  the 
"  Examiner,"  very  fine  in  passages,  but  more  characteristic  of  the  critic 
than  descriptive  of  the  poem. 

t  The  passage  in  which  the  copy  of"  Candide,"  found  in  the  apart- 
ment of  the  Recluse,  is  described  as  "  the  dull  production  of  a  scoffer's 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  125 

estimate  of  Voltaire  with  any  of  his  own  tribe  of  bufToons — 
no  injustice,  even  \i^  you  spoke  it,  for  I  dared  say  you  never 
could  relish  "  Candide."  I  know  I  tried  to  get  through  it 
about  a  twelvemonth  since,  and  couldn't  for  the  dullness. 
Now  I  think  I  have  a  wider  range  in  buffoonery  than  you. 
Too  much  toleration  perhaps. 

I  finish  this  after  a  raw,  ill-baked  dinner  fast  gobbled  up 
to  set  me  off  to  office  again,  after  working  there  till  near 
four.  O  how  I  wish  I  were  a  rich  man,  even  though  I  were 
squeezed  camel-fashion  at  getting  through  that  needle's  eye 
that  is  spoken  of  in  the  Written  Word.  Apropos :  is  the 
Poet  of"  The  Excursion  a  Christian;  or  is  it  the  Pedler  and 
the  Priest  that  are  ? 

I  find  I  miscalled  that  celestial  splendor  of  the  mist  going 
off,  a  sunset.     That  truly  shows  my  inaccuracy  of  head. 

Do,  pray,  indulge  me  by  writing  an  answer  to  the  point 
of  time  mentioned  above,  or  let  Southey.  I  am  ashamed  to 
go  bargaining  in  this  way,  but  indeed  I  have  no  time  I  can 
reckon  on  till  the  first  week  in  October.  God  send  I  may 
not  be  disappointed  in  that !  Coleridge  swore  in  a  letter  to 
me  he  would  review  "  The  Excursion"  in  the  "  Quarterly." 
Therefore,  though  that  shall  not  stop  me,  yet  if  I  can  do  any 
thing,  u'heji  done,  I  must  know  of  him  if  he  has  any  thing 
ready,  or  I  shall  fill  the  world  with  loud  exclaims. 

I  keep  writing  on,  knowing  the  postage  is  no  more  for 
much  writing,  else  so  fagged  and  dispirited  I  am  with  cursed 
India  House  work,  I  scarce  know  what  I  do.  My  left  arm 
reposes  on  "  The  Excursion."  I  feel  what  it  would  be  in 
quiet.     It  is  now  a  sealed  book. 

The  next  letter  was  written  after  the  fatal  critique  was 
despatched  to  the  Editor,  and  before  its  appearance. 

TO    MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

DEaR  W., 

Your  experience  about  tailors  seems  to  be  in  point 
blank  opposition  to  Burton,  as  much  as  the  author  of"  The 

brain," — which  had  excited  Hazlitt  to  energetic  vindication  of  VoUaire 
from  the  charge  of  dullness.  Whether  the  work,  written  in  mockery  of 
human  hopes,  be  dull,  I  will  not  venture  to  determine  ;  but  I  do  not  he- 
sitate, at  any  risk,  to  avow  a  conviction  that  no  book  in  the  world  is 
more  adajited  to  make  a  good  man  wretched. 


126  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


Excursion"  does,  tolo  codo,  differ  in  iiis  notion  of  a  country 
life,  from  the  picture  which  W.  H.  has  exhibited  of  the 
same.  But,  with  a  little  explanation,  you  and  B.  may  be 
reconciled.  It  is  evident  that  he  confined  his  observation  to 
the  genuine  native  London  Tailor.  What  freaks  tailor-nature 
may  take  in  the  country  is  not  for  me  to  give  account  of. 
And  certainly  some  of  the  freaks  recorded  do  give  an  idea 
of  the  persons  in  question  being  beside  themselves,  rather 
than  in  harmony  with  the  common,  moderate,  self-enjoyment 
of  the  rest  of  mankind.  A  flying-tailor,  I  venture  to  say,  is 
no  more  in  rerum  natiird  than  a  flying-horse  or  a  Gryphon. 
His  wheeling  his  airy-flight  from  the  precipice  you  mention, 
had  a  parallel  in  the  melancholy  Jew  wlio  toppled  from  the 
monument.  Were  his  limbs  ever  found  ?  Then,  the  man 
who  cures  diseases  by  words,  is  evidently  an  inspired  tailor. 
Burton  never  affirmed  that  the  art  of  sewing  disqualified  the 
practiser  of  it  from  being  a  fit  organ  for  supernatural  reve- 
lation. He  never  enters  into  such  subjects.  'Tis  the  com- 
mon, uninspired  tailor  which  he  speaks  of.  Again,  the  per- 
son who  makes  his  smiles  to  be  heard,  is  evidently  a  man 
under  possession ;  a  demoniac  tailor.  A  greater  hell  than 
his  own  must  have  a  hand  in  this.  I  am  not  certain  that  the 
cause  you  advocate  has  much  reason  for  a  triumph.  You 
seem  to  me  to  substitute  light-heartedness  by  a  trick,  or  not 
to  know  the  difference.  I  confess,  a  grinning  tailor  would 
shock  me.     Enough  of  tailors  ! 

The  "  'scapes"  of  the  Great  God  Pan,  who  appeared 
among  your  mountains  some  dozen  years  since,  and  his  nar- 
row chance  of  being  submerged  by  the  swains,  afforded  me 
much  pleasure.  I  can  conceive  the  water-nymphs  pulling 
for  him.  He  would  have  been  another  Hylas — W,  Hylas. 
In  a  mad  letter  which  Capel  Loft  wrote  to  M.  M.*  Phillips 
(now  Sir  Richard)  I  remember  his  noticing  a  metaphysical 
article  of  Pan,  signed  H.,  and  adding,  "  I  take  your  corres- 
pondent to  be  the  same  as  Hylas."  Hylas  had  put  forth  a 
pastoral  just  before.  How  near  the  unfounded  conjuncture 
of  the  certainty  inspired  Loft  (unfounded  as  we  thought  it) 
was  to  being  realized  !  I  can  conceive  his  being  "  good  to 
all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood."     One   J.  Scottf   (I 

*  Monthly  Magazine. 

+  Afterwards  the  distinguished  and  unfortunate  editor  of  the  Lon- 
don Magazine. 


LETTERS    TO   WORDSWORTH.  127 

know  no  more)  is  editor  of  "  The  Champion."     Where  is 
Coleridge  ? 

That  Review  you  speak  of,  I  am  only  sorry  did  not 
appear  last  quarter.  The  circumstances  of  haste  and  pecu- 
liar bad  spirits  under  which  it  was  written,  would  have  ex- 
cused its  slightness  and  inadequacy,  the  full  load  of  which  I 
shall  sutler  from  its  lying  so  long,  as  it  will  seem  to  have 
done,  from  its  postponement.  I  write  with  great  difficulty, 
and  can  scarce  command  my  own  resolution  to  sit  at  writing 
an  hour  together.  I  am  a  poor  creature,  but  I  am  leaving 
off  gin.  I  hope  you  will  see  good  will  in  the  thing.  I  had 
a  difficulty  to  perform  not  to  make  it  all  panegyric  ;  I  have 
attempted  to  personate  a  mere  stranger  to  you ;  perhaps  with 
too  much  strangeness.  But  you  must  bear  that  in  mind 
when  you  read  it,  and  not  think  that  I  am,  in  mind,  distant 
from  you  or  your  poems,  but  that  both  are  close  to  me, 
among  the  nearest  of  persons  and  things.  I  do  but  act  the 
stranger  in  the  Review.  Then,  I  was  puzzled  about  extracts 
and  determined  upon  not  giving  one  that  had  been  in  the 
"  Examiner  ;"  for  extracts  repealed  give  an  idea  that  there  is  a 
meagre  allowance  of  good  things.  By  this  way,  I  deprived 
myself  of  "Sir  Alfred  Irthing,"  and  the  reflections  that  con- 
clude his  story,  which  are  the  flower  of  the  poem.  Hazlitt 
had  given  the  reflections  before  me.  Then  it  is  the  first  re- 
view I  ever  did,  and  I  did  not  know  how  long  I  might  make 
it.  But  it  must  speak  for  itself,  if  Gilford  and  his  crew  do 
not  put  words  in  its  mouth,  which  I  expect.  Farewell. 
Love  to  all.     Mary  keeps  very  bad. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  apprehension  expressed  at  the  close  of  the  last  letter 
was  dismally  verified.  The  following  contains  Lamb's  first 
burst  of  an  indignation  which  lasted  amidst  all  his  gentleness 
and  tolerance  unquenched  through  life : — 

to  mr.  wordsworth. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

I  told  you  my  review  was  a  very  imperfect  one. 
But  what  you  will  see  in  the  "  Quarterly"  is  a  spurious  one, 
which  Mr.  Baviad  Gilford  has  palmed  upon  it  for  mine.  I 
never  felt  more  vexed  in  my  life  than  when  I  read  it.     I  can- 


128  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

not  give  you  an  idea  of  what  he  has  done  to  it,  out  of  spite 
at  me,  because  he  once  suffered  me  to  be  called  a  lunatic  in 
his  Review.*  The  language  he  has  altered  throughout. 
Whatever  inadequateness  it  had  to  its  subject,  it  was,  in  point 
of  composition,  the  prettiest  piece  of  prose  I  ever  writ ;  and 
so  my  sister  (to  whom  alone  I  read  the  MS.)  said.  That 
charm,  if  it  had  any,  is  all  gone  :  more  than  a  third  of  the 
substance  is  cut  away,  and  that  not  all  from  one  place,  but 
passim,  so  as  to  make  utter  nonsense.  Every  warm  expres- 
sion is  changed  for  a  nasty  cold  one. 

I  have  not  the  cursed  alteration  by  me  ;  I  shall  never 
look  at  it  again ;  but  for  a  specimen,  I  remember  I  had  said 
the  poet  of  "  The  Excursion"  "  walks  through  common  for- 
ests as  through  some  Dodona  or  enchanted  wood,  and  everj' 
casual  bird  that  flits  upon  the  boughs,  like  that  miraculous 
one  in  Tasso,  but  in  language  more  piercing  that  any  articu- 
lated sounds,  reveals  to  him  far  higher  love-lays."  It  is  now 
(besides  half-a-dozen  alterations  in  the  same  half-dozen  lines) 
"but  in  language  more  intelligent  reveals  to  him;" — that  is 
one  I  remember. 

But  that  would  have  been  little,  putting  his  shoemaker 
phraseology  (for  he  was  a  shoemaker)  instead  of  mine,  which 
has  been  tinctured  with  better  authors  than  his  ignorance  can 
comprehend; — for  I  reckon  myself  a  dab  at  prose  ;• — verse 
I  leave  to  my  betters :  God  help  them,  if  they  are  to  be  so 
reviewed  by  friend  or  foe  as  you  have  been  this  quarter  !  I 
have  read  "It  won't  do."f  But  worse  than  altering  words: 
he  has  kept  a  few  members  only  of  the  part  I  had  done  best, 
which  was  to  explain  all  I  could  of  your  "  Scheme  of  Har- 
monies," as  I  had  ventured  to  call  it,  between  the  external 
universe  and  what  within  us  answers  to  it.  To  do  this,  I 
had  accumulated  a  good  many  short  passages,  rising  in  length 
to  the  end,  weaving  in  the  extracts  as  if  they  came  in  as  a 

*  In  alluding  to  Lamb's  note  on  the  great  scene  of  "  The  Broken 
Heart,"  where  Calantha  dances  on,  after  hearing  at  every  pause  of 
some  terrible  calamity,  a  writer  in  the  "  Quarterly"  had  affected  to  ex- 
cuse the  writer  as  a  "  maniac  ;"  a  suggestion  which  circumstances  ren- 
dered most  cruel. 

t Though  the  article  on  "The  Excursion,"  in  the  "Edinburgh  Re- 
view" commenced  "  This  will  never  do  !"  it  contained  ample  illustra- 
tions of  the  author's  genius,  and  helped  the  world  to  disprove  its  oracular 
beginning. 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  129 

part  of  the  text  naturally,  not  obtruding  them  as  specimens. 
Of  this  part  a  little  is  left,  but  so  as,  without  conjuration,  no 
man  could  tell  what  I  was  driving  at.  A  proof  of  it  you 
may  see  (though  not  judge  of  the  whole  of  the  injustice)  by 
these  words.  I  had  spoken  something  about  "natural  method- 
ism  ;"  and  after  follows,  "  and  therefore  the  tale  of  Margaret 
should  have  been  postponed"  (  I  forget  my  words,  or  his 
words  );  now  his  reasons  for  postponing  it  are  as  deducible 
from  what  goes  before,  as  they  are  from  the  104th  Psalm. 
The  passage  whence  I  deduced  it,  has  vanished,  but  clapping 
a  colon  before  a  therefore  is  always  reason  enough  for  Mr. 
Baviad  Giffbrd  to  allow  to  a  reviewer  that  is  not  himself.  I 
assure  you  my  complaints  are  founded.  I  know  how  sore  a 
word  altered  makes  one  ;  but,  indeed,  of  this  review  the 
whole  complexion  is  gone.  I  regret  only  that  I  did  not  keep 
a  copy.  I  am  sure  you  would  have  been  pleased  with  it, 
because  I  have  been  feeding  my  fancy  for  some  months  with 
the  notion  of  pleasing  you.  Its  imperfection  or  inadequate- 
ness  in  size  and  method  I  knew  ;  but  for  the  wrJtmg-part  of 
it  I  was  fully  satisfied ;  I  hoped  it  would  make  more  than 
atonement.  Ten  or  twelve  distinct  passages  come  to  my 
mind,  which  are  gone,  and  what  is  left  is,  of  course,  the 
worse  for  their  having  been  ;  the  eyes  are  pulled  out,  and 
the  bleeding  sockets  are  left. 

I  read  it  at  Arch's  shop  with  my  face  burning  with  vex- 
ation secretly,  with  just  such  a  feeling  a§  if  it  had  been  a 
review  written  against  myself,  making  false  quotations  from 
me.  But  1  am  asliamed  to  say  so  much  about  a  short  piece. 
How  are  you  served !  and  the  labors  of  years  turned  into 
contempt  by  scoundrels  ! 

"  But  I  could  not  but  protest  against  your  taking  that  thing 
as  mine.  Every  pr elf y  expression  (I  know  there  were  many)  ; 
every  warm  expression  (there  was  nothing  else)  is  vulgar- 
ized and  frozen.  If  they  catch  mc  in  their  camps  again,  let 
them  spitchcock  me  !  They  had  a  right  to  do  it,  as  no  name 
appears  to  it,  and  Mr.  Shoemaker  GifTord,  I  suppose,  never 
waived  a  right  he  had  since  he  commenced  author.  Heaven 
confound  him  and  all  caititTs! 

C.  L. 


130  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

The  next  letter  is  fantastically  written  beneath  a  regular 
official  order,  the  words  in  italics  being  printed. 

Sir, 

Please  to  state  the  weights  and  amounts  of  the  foU 
lowing  Lots  of 
sold  Sale  181  for 

Your  obedient  Servant, 
Chas.  Lamb. 
Accountant's  Office, 

26<A  April,  1816.* 


Dear  W., 

I  have  just  finished  the  pleasing  task  of  correcting 
the  revise  of  the  poems  and  letter.  I  hope  they  will  come 
out  faultless.  One  blunder  I  saw  and  shuddered  at.  The 
hallucinating  rascal  had  printed  battered  for  battened,  this  last 
not  conveying  any  distinct  sense  to  his  gaping  soul.  The 
Reader  (as  they  call  'em)  had  discovered  it,  and  given  it 
the  marginal  brand,  but  the  substitutory  n  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared. I  accompanied  his  notice  with  a  most  pathetic  ad- 
dress to  the  printer  not  to  neglect  the  correction.  I  know 
how  such  a  blunder  would  "batten  at  your  peace."  With 
regard  to  the  works,  the  letter  I  read  with  unabated  satisfac- 
tion. Such  a  thing  was  wanted ;  called  for.  The  parallel 
of  Cotton  with  Burns  I  heartily  approved  of.  Iz.  Walton  hal- 
lows any  page  in  which  his  reverend  name  appears.  "Duty 
archly  bending  to  purposes  of  general  benevolence"  is  ex- 
quisite. The  poems  I  endeavored  not  to  understand,  but  to 
read  them  with  my  eye  alone,  and  I  think  I  succeeded. 
(Some  people  will  do  that  when  they  come  out,  you'll  say.) 
As  if  I  were  to  luxuriate  to-morrow  at  some  picture-gallery 
I  was  never  at  before,  and  going  to-day  by  chance,  found  the 
door  open,  and  having  but  five  minutes  to  look  about  me, 
peeped  in  ;  just  such  a  chastised  peep  I  took  with  my  mind 
at  the  lines  my  luxuriating  eye  was  coursing  over  unre- 
strained, not  to  anticipate  another  day's  fuller  satisfaction. 
Coleridge  is  printing  "  Christubel,"  by  Lord  Byron's  recom- 

*  This  is  shown  by  the  postmark  to  be  an  error  ;  it  should  be  1818. 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  131 

mendation  to  Murray,  witii  what  he  calls  a  vision,  "  Kubla 
Khan,"  which  said  vision  he  repeats  so  enchantingly,  that  it 
irradiates  and  brings  heaven  and  elysian  bowers  into  my  par- 
lor while  he  sings  or  says  it ;  but  there  is  an  observation, 
"  Never  tell  your  dreams,"  and  I  am  almost  afraid  that 
"  Kubla  Khan"  is  an  owl  that  won't  bear  day-light.  I  fear 
lest  it  should  be  discovered  by  the  lantern  of  typography  and 
clear  redacting  to  letters  no  better  than  nonsense  or  no  sense. 
When  I  was  young,  I  used  to  chant  with  ecstasy  "  Mild 
Arcadiams  ever  blooming,"  till  somebody  told  me  it  was 
meant  to  be  nonsense.  Even  yet  I  have  a  lingering  attach- 
ment to  it,  and  think  it  better  than  "  Windsor  Forest,"  ''  Dy- 
ing Christian's  Address,"  &c.  Coleridge  sent  his  tragedy 
to  D.  L.  T.  ;  it  cannot  be  acted  this  season,  and  by  their 
manner  of  receiving,  I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  alter  it  to 
make  them  accept  it  for  next.  He  is,  at  present,  under  the 
medical  care  of  Mr.  Gillman  (Killman  ?)  at  Highgate,  where 
he  plays  at  leaving  off*  laud — m  ;  I  think  his  essentials  not 
touched  ;  he  is  very  bad,  but  then  he  wonderfully  picks  up 
another  day,  and  his  face,  when  he  repeats  his  verses,  hath 
its  ancient  glory  ;  an  archangel  a  little  damaged.  Will  Miss 
H.  pardon  our  not  replying  at  length  to  her  kind  letter  ?  We 
are  not  quiet  enough  ;  Morgan  is  with  us  every  day,  going 
betwixt  Highgate  and  the  Temple.  Coleridge  is  absent  but 
four  miles,  and  the  neighborhood  of  such  a  man  is  as  excit- 
ing as  the  presence  of  fifty  ordinary  persons.  'Tis  enough 
to  be  within  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  genius  for  us  not  to 
possess  our  souls  in  quiet.  If  I  lived  with  him  or  the  Author 
of  the  Excursion,  I  should,  in  a  very  little  time,  lose  my  own 
identity,  and  be  dragged  along  in  the  current  of  other  peo- 
ple's thoughts,  hampered  in  a  net.  How  cool  I  sit  in  this 
office,  with  no  possible  interruption  further  than  what  I  may 
term  material!  There  is  not  as  much  metaphysics  in  thirty- 
six  of  the  people  here  as  there  is  in  the  first  page  of  Locke's 
"  Treatise  on  the  Human  Understanding,"  or  as  much  poetry 
as  in  any  ten  lines  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  or  more 
natural  '-Beggar's  Petition."  I  never  entangle  myself  in 
any  of  their  speculations.  Interruptions,  if  I  try  to  write  a 
letter  even,  I  have  dreadful.  Just  now,  within  four  lines,  I 
was  called  off  for  ten  minutes  to  consult  dusty  old  books  for 
the  settlement  of  obsolete  errors.     I  hold  you  a  guinea  you 


132  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

don't  find  the   chasm  where  I   left  ofT,    so  excellently   the 
wounded  sense  closed  again  and  was  healed. 

N.  B. — Nothing  said  above  to  the  contrary,  but  that  I 
hold  the  personal  presence  of  the  two  mentioned  potent 
spirits  at  a  rate  as  high  as  any ;  but  I  pay  dearer  ;  what 
amuses  others  robs  me  of  myself;  my  mind  is  positively  dis- 
charged into  their  greater  currents,  but  flows  with  a  willing 
violence.  As  to  your  question  about  work  ;  it  is  far  less  op- 
pressive to  me  than  it  was,  from  circumstances ;  it  takes  all 
the  golden  part  of  the  day  away,  a  solid  lump,  from  ten  to 
four  ;  but  it  does  not  kill  my  peace  as  before.  Some  day  or 
other  I  shall  be  in  a  taking  again.  My  head  aches,  and  you 
have  had  enough.     God  bless  you  ! 

C.  Labib. 


CHAPTER  VII, 


THE  LONDON  MAGAZINE — CHAKACTER  AND  FATE  OF  MR.  JOHN  SCOTT,  ITS 
EDITOR — CHARACTER  AND  HISTORY  OF  MR.  THOMAS  GRIFFITHS  WAIN- 
WRIGHT,     ONE     OF     ITS     CONTRIBUTORS MISCELLANEOUS      LETTERS      OF 

LAMB    TO    WORDSWORTH,    COLERIDGE,    AND    OTHERS  ; 1818  TO  1825. 

Lamb's  association  with  Hazlitt  in  the  year  1820  intro- 
duced him  to  that  of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  which  supplied 
the  finest  stimulus  his  intellect  had  ever  received,  and  in- 
duced the  composition  of  the  Essays  fondly  and  familiarly 
known  under  the  fantastic  title  of  Elia.  Never  was  a  peri- 
odical work  commenced  with  happier  auspices,  numbering  a 
list  of  contributors  more  original  in  thought,  more  fresh  in 
spirit,  more  sportive  in  fancy,  or  directed  by  an  editor  better 
qualified  by  nature  and  study  to  preside,  than  this  "  London." 
There  was  Lamb,  with  humanity  ripened  among  townbred 
experiences,  and  pathos  matured  by  sorrow,  at  his  wisest, 
sagest,  airiest,  mdiscreetcst,  best ;  Barry  Cornwall,  in  the 
first  bloom  of  his  modest  and  enduring  fame,  streaking  the 
darkest  passion  with  beauty  ;  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  light- 
ing up  the  wildest  eccentricities  and  most  striking  features  of 
many-colored  life  with  vivid  fancy  ;  and  with  others  of  less 
note,  Hazlitt,  whose  pen  unloosed  from  the  chain  which  ear- 
nest thought  and  metaphysical  dreamings  had  Avoven,  gave 
radiant  expression  to  the  results  of  the  solitary  musings  of 
many  years.  Over  these  contributors  John  Scott  presided, 
himself  a  critic  of  remarkable  candor,  eloquencs,  and  discrim- 
ination, unfettered  by  the  dogmas  of  contending  schools  of 
poetry  and  art;  apt  to  discern  the  good  and  beautiful  in 
all  ;  and  having,  as  editor,  that  which  Kent  recognized  in 
Lear,  which  subjects  revere  in  kings,  and  boys  admire  in 
schoolmasters,  and  contributors  should  Avelcome  in  editors — 
authority  ; — not  manifested  in  a  worrying,  teasing,  intolera- 
ble interference  in  small  matters,   but  in  a  judicious  and 


134  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

Steady  superintendence  of  the  whole  ;  with  a  wise  allowance 
of  the  occasional  excesses  of  wit  and  genius.  In  this  respect, 
Mr.  Scott  differed  entirely  from  a  celebrated  poet,  who  was 
induced,  just  a  year  after,  to  undertake  the  Editorship  of  the 
"  New  Monthly  Magazine,"  an  office  for  which,  it  may  be 
said,  with  all  veneration  for  his  poetic  genius,  he  was  the 
most  unfit  person  who  could  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of 
letters — who  regarded  a  magazine  as  if  it  were  a  long  affida- 
vit, or  a  short  answer  in  Chancery,  in  which  the  absolute 
truth  of  every  sentiment  and  the  propriety  of  every  jest  were 
verified  by  the  editor's  oath  or  solemn  affirmation  ;  who  stop- 
ped the  press  for  a  week  at  a  comma  ;  balanced  contending 
epithets  for  a  fortnight ;  and,  at  last,  grew  rash  in  despair, 
and  tossed  the  nearest,  and  often  the  worst  article,  "  unwhipped 
of  justice,"  to  the  impatient  printer.  Mr.  Scott,  indeed,  was 
more  fit  to  preside  over  a  little  commonwealth  of  authors  than 
to  hold  despotic  rule  over  subject  contributors  ;  he  had  not 
the  airy  grace  of  Jeffrey,  by  which  he  might  give  a  certain 
familiar  liveliness  to  the  most  laborious  disquisitions,  and  shed 
the  glancing  light  of  fancy  among  party  manifestoes  ; — nor 
the  boisterous  vigor  of  Wilson,  riotous  in  power,  reckless  in 
wisdom,  fusing  the  production  of  various  intellects  into  one 
brilliant  reflexion  of  his  own  master  mind  ; — and  it  was  well 
that  he  wanted  these  weapons  of  a  tyranny  which  his  chief 
contributors  were  too  original  and  too  sturdy  to  endure.  He 
heartily  enjoyed  his  position  ;  duly  appreciated  his  contribu- 
tors and  himself;  and  when  he  gave  audience  to  some  young 
aspirant  for  periodical  honors  at  a  late  breakfast,  amidst  the 
luxurious  confusion  of  newspapers,  reviews,  and  uncut  novels, 
lying  about  in  fascinating  litter,  and  carelessly  enunciated 
schemes  for  bright  successions  of  essays,  he  seemed  destined 
for  many  years  of  that  happy  excitement  in  which  thought 
perpetually  glows  into  unruffied  but  energetic  language,  and 
is  assured  by  the  echoes  of  the  world. 

Alas  !  a  few  days  after  he  thus  appeared  the  object  of  ad- 
miration and  envy  to  a  young  visitor,  in  his  rooms  in  York- 
street,  he  was  stretched  on  a  bed  of  mental  agony — the  foolish 
victim  of  the  guilty  custom  of  a  world  which  would  have 
laughed  at  him  for  regarding  himself  as  within  the  sphere  of 
its  opinion,  if  he  had  not  died  to  shame  it !  In  a  luckless  hour, 
instead  of  seeking  to  oppose  the  bitter  personalities  of  "  Black- 


THOMAS   GRIFFITHS    WAINWRIGHT.  135 

Wood"  by  the  exhibition  of  a  serener  power,  he  rushed 
with  spurious  chivalry  into  a  personal  contest;  caught 
up  the  weapons  which  he  had  himself  denounced,  and 
sought  to  unmask  his  opponents  and  draw  them  beyond  the 
pale  of  literary  courtesy;  placed  himself  thus  in  a  doubtful 
position  in  which  he  could  neither  consistently  reject  an  ap- 
peal to  the  conventional  arbitrament  of  violence  nor  embrace 
it ;  lost  his  most  legitimate  opportunity  of  daring  the  unhal- 
lowed strife,  and  found  another  with  an  antagonist  connected 
with  the  quarrel  only  by  too  zealous  a  friendship ;  and,  at 
last,  met  his  death  almost  by  lamentable  accident,  in  the  un- 
certain glimmer  of  moonlight,  from  the  hand  of  one  who  went 
out  resolved  not  to  harm  him !  Such  was  the  melancholy 
result — first  of  a  controversy  too  envenomed — and  afterwards 
of  enthralment  in  usages,  absurd  in  all,  but  most  absurd  when 
applied  by  a  literary  man  to  a  literary  quarrel.  Apart  from 
higher  considerations,  it  may  befit  a  life  destined  for  the  list- 
less excesses  of  gayety  to  be  cast  on  an  idle  brawl ;  "  a  youth 
of  folly,  an  old  age  of  cards"  may  be  no  great  sacrifice  to 
preserve  the  hollow  truce  of  fashionable  society  :  but  for  men 
of  thought — whose  minds  are  their  possession,  and  who  seek 
to  live  in  the  minds  of  others  by  sympathy  with  their  thoughts 
— for  them  to  hazard  a  thoughtful  being  because  they  dare 
not  own  that  they  prefer  life  to  death — contemplation  to  the 
grave — the  preparation  for  eternity,  for  the  unbidden  entrance 
on  its  terrors,  would  be  ridiculous  if  it  did  not  become  tragi- 
cal. "Sir,  I  am  a  metaphysician  !"  said  Hazlitt  once,  when 
in  a  fierce  dispute  respecting  the  colors  of  Holbein  arid  Van^ 
dyke,  words  almost  became  things  ;  "  and  nothing  makes  an 
impression  upon  me  but  abstract  ideas  ;"  and  woful,  indeed, 
is  the  mockery  when  thinkers  condescend  to  be  duelists ! 

The  Magazine  did  not  perish  with  its  Editor;  though  its 
unity  of  purpose  was  lost,  it  was  still  rich  in  essays  of  sur- 
passing individual  merit ;  among  which  the  masterly  vindi- 
cation of  the  true  di'amatic  style  by  Darley  ;  the  articles  of 
Gary,  the  admirable  translator  of  Dante;  and  the  "Confes- 
sions of  an  English  Opium  Eater;"  held  a  distinguished 
place.  Mr.  De  Quincy,  whose  youth  had  been  inspired  by 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  Coleridge,  shown  in  contributions 
to  "  The  Friend,"  not  unworthy  of  his  master,  and  substan- 
tial contributions  of  the  blessings  of  fortune,  came  up  to  Lon- 


136  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHAULES    LAMB. 

don,  and  found  an  admiring  welcome  from  Messrs.  Taylor 
and  Hessey,  the  publishers  into  whose  hands  the  "London 
Magazine"  had  passed.  After  the  good  old  fashion  of  the 
GREAT  TRADE,  those  genial  booksellers  used  to  assemble  their 
contributors  round  their  hospitable  table  in  Fleet  Street, 
where  Mr.  De  Quincy  was  introduced  to  his  new  allies. 
Among  the  contributors  who  partook  of  their  professional 
festivities,  was  a  gentleman  whose  subsequent  career  has 
invested  the  recollection  of  his  appearances  in  the  familiarity 
of  social  life  with  fearful  interest — Mr.  Thomas  Griffiths 
Wainwright.  He  was  then  a  young  man ;  on  the  bright 
side  of  thirty  ;  with  a  sort  of  undress  military  air,  and  the 
conversation  of  a  smart,  lively,  clever,  heartless,  voluptuous 
coxcomb.  It  was  whispered  that  he  had  been  an  officer  in 
the  Dragoons  ;  had  spent  more  than  one  fortune  ;  and  he 
now  condescended  to  take  a  part  in  periodical  literature,  with 
the  careless  grace  of  an  amateur  who  felt  himself  above 
it.  He  was  an  artist  also ;  sketched  boldly  and  graphical- 
ly :  exhibited  a  portfolio  of  his  own  draAvings  of  female  beau- 
ty, in  which  the  voluptuous  trembled  on  the  borders  of  the 
indelicate  ;  and  seized  on  the  critical  department  of  the  Fine 
Arts,  both  in  and  out  of  the  Magazine,  undisturbed  by  the 
presence  or  pretensions  of  the  finest  critic  on  Art  who  ever 
wi'ote — William  Hazlitt.  On  this  subject,  he  composed,  for 
the  Magazine,  under  the  signatureof"  Janus  Weathercock," 
articles  of  flashy  assumption — in  which  disdainful  notices  of 
living  artists  were  set  off  by  fiiscinating  references  to  the  per- 
sonal  appearance,  accomplishments,  and  luxurious  applian- 
ces of  the  writer,  ever  the  first  hero  of  his  essay.  He  creat- 
ed a  new  sensation  in  the  sedate  circle,  not  only  by  his 
braided  surtouts,  jeweled  fingers,  and  various  neck-handker- 
chiefs, but  by  ostentatious  contempt  for  every  thing  in  the 
world  but  elegant  enjoyment.  Lamb,  who  delighted  to  find 
sympathy  in  dissimilitude,  fancied  that  he  really  liked  him  : 
took,  as  he  ever  did,  the  genial  side  of  character ;  and,  in- 
stead of  disliking  the  rake  in  the  critic,  thought  it  pleasant 
to  detect  so  much  taste  and  good  nature  in  a  fashionable  roii^  ; 
and  regarded  all  his  vapid  gayety,  which  to  severer  observ- 
ers looked  like  impertinence,  as  the  playful  effiision  of  a  re- 
markably guileless  nature.  Thus,  when  expatiating  in  his 
list  of  choicest  friends,  in  Elia's  letter  to  Southey,  he  reckons 


THOMAS    GRIFFITHS   WAIN  WRIGHT.  137 

"  W ,  the  light,  and  warm-as-liglit  hearted, '  Janus'  of  the 

'London;'"  and  two  years  afterwards,  adverting  to  the  de- 
cline of  the  Magazine,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Barton,  he  persists 
in  his  belief  of  Wainwriglit's  light-heartedness  as  pertina- 
ciously as  all  the  half  conscious  dupes  in  Othello  do  in  the 
assertion  of  lago's  honesty  :  "  They  have  pulled  down  Haz- 

litt,  P ,  and  their   best  stay,  kind,  light-hearted  W , 

their  '  Janus.'  "  In  elucidation  of  this  apparent  lightness  of 
heart,  it  will  not  be  uninstructive  to  trace  the  remainder  of 
this  extraordinary  person's  history  ;  for  surely  no  contrast 
presented  by  the  wildest  romance  between  a  gay  cavalier, 
fascinating  Naples  or  Palermo,  and  the  same  hero  detect- 
ed as  the  bandit  or  demon  of  the  forest,  equals  that  which 
time  has  unveiled  between  what  Mr.  VVainwright  seemed,  and 
what  he  u'ds. 

Mr.  Wainwright,  having  ceased  to  contribute  to  the  "  Lon- 
don" about  tile  year  1825,  when  Lamb  bestowed  on  him  his 
parting  eulogium,  was  scarcely  seen  in  our  literary  circle, 
though  he  retained  the  acquaintance  and  regard  of  some  of 
its  members.  In  the  year  1830  lie  was  residing  at  Lin- 
den House,  Turnham  Green,  in  the  possession  of  which 
he  had  succeeded  his  uncle.  Dr.  Griffiths,  who  for  many 
years  edited  a  monthly  publication,  and  whose  death  had 
occurred  about  a  year  before,  after  a  short  illness,  while 
Mr.  Wainwright  and  his  wife  were  visiting  at  his  house  on 
the  occasion  of  her  confinement  with  her  only  child.  He 
acquired  some  property  at  the  death  of  his  uncle,  by  whose 
bounty,  being  early  left  an  orphan,  he  had  been  educated  ; 
but  his  expensive  tastes  soon  brought  him  to  severe  pecuniary 
embarrassments  and  the  verge  of  ruin.  His  wife's  mother, 
Avho  had  died  in  Linden  House  after  a  short  illness,  left  two 
daughters  by  Mr.  Abercrombie,  her  second  husband,  named 
Helen  Frances  Phcebe;  and  Madeline  ;  Mrs.  Wainwright 
being  the  daughter  of  a  former  husband,  named  Ward. 
These  young  ladies  being  left  without  provision,  except  a 
pension  of  lOi?.  a  year  each,  which  had  been  granted  to  them, 
as  the  destitute  daughters  of  a  meritorious  officer,  by  the 
Board  of  Ordnance,  were  invited  by  Mr.  Wainwright  to  visit 
him  at  Linden  House,  and  at  the  beginning  of  1830,  with  his 
wife  and  child,  formed  his  family. 

About  this  time,  he  formed  the  remarkable  scheme  of  pro- 


138  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

curing  the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies  to  effect  insurances  on 
her  life,  to  the  amount  of  many  thousands  of  pounds,  for  the 
period  of  three,  or  two  years.  Miss  Helen  Frances  Phoebe 
Abercrombie  was  then  a  lovely  woman  nearly  of  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  which  she  attained  12th  of  March,  1830  ;  with- 
out expectations,  except  of  some  trifling  possibility  under  a 
settlement,  and,  except  the  proceeds  of  the  pension,  without  a 
shilling  in  the  world  ;  while  Mr.  Wainwright,  who  supplied 
the  funds  for  this  strange  speculation,  was  in  reality  still  poor- 
er, being  steeped  in  debt,  impatient  of  privation,  with  ruin 
daily  contracting  its  circle  around  him. 

The  first  proposal  was  made  by  Mr.  Wainwright,  on  be- 
half of  Miss  Abercrombie,  to  the  Palladium  Insurance  Office, 
on  28th  March,  for  3,000Z.  for  three  years.  On  this  occasion, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wainwright  and  Miss  Abercrombie  called  to- 
gether at  the  office,  where  the  object  of  the  insurance  was 
stated  to  be  to  enable  them  to  recover  some  property  to  which 
the  young  lady  was  entitled.  This  proposal  was  accepted, 
and  on  the  20th  of  April  completed  by  payment  of  the  pre- 
mium for  one  year  by  the  hand  of  Miss  Abercrombie,  then 
attended  only  by  Mrs.  Wainwright,  and  the  delivery  of  the 
policy.  On  or  about  the  same  day,  a  similar  insurance  was 
effected  with  the  Eagle  Insurance  Office  for  3,000/.,  for  the 
term  of  two  years,  and  the  premium  for  one  year  and  stamp 
duty  were  paid  by  Miss  Abercrombie,  in  her  sister's  presence. 
In  tiie  following  October  four  more  policies  were  effected  ; 
with  the  Provident  for  2,000/. ;  with  the  Hope  for  2,000/. ; 
with  the  Imperial  for  3,000/.  ;  and  with  the  Pelican  for 
5,000/. — each  on  the  life  of  Miss  Abercrombie,  and  each  for 
the  period  of  two  years  ;  so  that,  at  the  close  of  this  month  of  Oc- 
tober, the  life  of  this  poor  girl,  described  by  the  actuary  of  the 
Provident  as  "  a  remarkably  healthy,  cheerful,  beautiful  young 
woman,  whose  life  was  one  of  a  thousand,"  was  insured  to  the 
amount  of  18,000/.,  as  to  3,000/.  for  three  years,  and  for  the 
residue  for  two  years  only.  Premiums  for  one  year,  amount- 
ing, with  the  stamps,  to  something  more  than  220/.,  had  been 
paid ;  the  premiums  which  would  be  required  to  keep  the 
policies  on  foot  for  a  second  year  amounting  to  200/.,  and  in 
the  event  of  her  surviving  the  brief  terms  of  insurance,  the 
whole  money  would  be  lost.  On  every  visit  to  the  offices, 
Miss  Abercrombie  was  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Wainwright ; 


THOMAS   GRIFFITHS    WAINWRIGHT.  139 

and  the  appearance  of  these  two  ladies  together  on  such  an 
errand  sometimes  awakened  scruples  which  the  apparent  de- 
sirableness of  the  life  for  insurance  to  an  office  did  not  al- 
ways silence.  At  the  Imperial  it  was  suggested  to  I\Iiss 
Abercrombie,  by  Mr.  Ingall,  the  actuary,  that  "  as  she  only 
proposed  to  make  the  Insurance  for  two  years,  he  presumed 
it  was  to  secure  some  property  she  would  come  into  at  the 
expiration  of  tiiat  time;"  to  which  Mrs.  Wainwrigiit  replied, 
"  Not  exactly  so,  it  is  to  secure  a  sum  of  money  to  her  sister, 
which  she  will  be  enabled  to  do  by  other  means  if  she  out- 
lives that  time ;  but  I  don't  know  much  of  her  affairs ; 
you  had  better  speak  to  her  about  it."  On  which  Miss  Aber- 
crombie said,  "  That  is  the  case."  By  what  means  the 
ladies  were  induced  to  make  these  statements  can  scarcely 
ever  be  guessed  ;  it  is  certain  that  they  were  illusory.  No 
reason  existed  for  the  poor  penniless  girl  securing  3,000/.  for 
her  sister  in  case  of  her  own  death  within  two  years,  nor  was 
there  the  least  chance  of  her  receiving  such  a  sum  if  living 
at  the  end  of  that  period. 

The  sum  of  18,000/.  did  not  bound  the  limits  of  the 
speculation  ;  for,  in  the  same  month  of  October,  a  proposal 
to  the  Eagle  to  increase  the  insurance  by  the  addition  of 
2,000/.,  was  made  and  declined  ;  and  a  proposal  to  the 
Globe  for  5,000/.,  and  a  proposal  to  the  Alliance  for 
some  further  sum,  met  a  similar  fate.  At  the  office  of 
the  Globe,  Miss  Abercrombie,  who,  as  usual,  was  accom- 
panied by  Mrs.  Wainwright,  being  asked  the  object  of  the 
insurance,  replied  that  "  she  scarcely  knew  ;  but  she  was 
desired  to  come  there  by  her  friends,  who  wished  the  in- 
surance done."  On  being  further  pressed,  she  referred  to 
Mrs.  Wainwright,  who  said,  "  It  is  for  some  money  matters 
that  are  to  be  arranged ;  but  ladies  don't  know  much  about 
such  things;"  and  Miss  Abercrombie  answered  a  question, 
whether  she  was  insured  in  any  other  office,  in  the  nega- 
tive. At  the  Alliance,  Helen  was  more  severely  tested 
by  the  considerate  kindness  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  received 
the  proposal,  and  who  was  not  satisfied  by  her  statement 
that  a  suit  was  depending  in  Chancery,  which  would  prob- 
ably terminate  in  her  favor,  but  that  if  she  should  die  in  the 
interim,  the  property  would  go  into  another  family,  for  which 
contingency  she  wished  to  provide.     The  young  lady,  a  lit- 


140  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

tie  irritated  at  the  question,  said,  "  I  supposed  that  what  you 
had  to  inquire  into  was  the  state  of  my  health,  not  the  object 
for  the  insurance  ;"  on  which  he  informed  her  "  that  a  young 
lady,  such  as  she  was,  had  come  to  the  office  two  years  be- 
fore to  effect  an  insurance  for  a  short  time ;  and  that  it  was 
the  opinion  of  the  Company  she  had  come  to  her  death  by 
unfair  means."  Poor  Helen  replied,  "  she  was  sure  there 
was  no  one  about  her  who  could  have  any  such  object."  Mr. 
Hamilton  said,  "  Of  course  not ;"  but  added,  "that  he  was 
not  satisfied  as  to  the  object  of  the  insurance  ;  and  unless  she 
stated  in  writing  what  it  was,  and  the  Directors  approved  it, 
the  proposal  could  not  be  entertained."  The  ladies  retired ; 
and  the  office  heard  no  more  of  the  proposal,  nor  of  Miss  Ab- 
ercrombie,  till  they  heard  she  w^as  dead,  and  that  the  pay- 
ment of  other  policies  on  her  life  was  resisted. 

Mr.  Wainwright's  affiiirs  soon  approached  a  crisis,  for  he 
had  given  a  warrant  of  attorney  in  August,  and  a  bill  of  sale 
of  his  furniture  at  Linden  House,  both  of  which  were  become 
absolute,  and  seizure  under  which  he  had  postponed  only  till 
the  20th  or  21st  of  December.  Early  in  that  month  he  left  Lin- 
den House,  and  took  furnished  lodgings  in  Conduit  Street,  to 
which  he  was  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  her  two  half- 
sisters.  On  the  13th  of  that  month  Miss  Abercrombie  called 
on  a  solicitor  named  Lys,  to  whom  she  was  a  stranger,  and 
requested  him  to  attest  the  execution  of  a  will  she  desired  to 
make,  as  she  was  going  abroad ;  he  complied,  and  she  exe- 
cuted a  will  in  favor  of  her  sister  Madeline,  making  Mr. 
Wainwright  its  executor.  On  the  14th,  having  obtained  a 
form  of  assignment  from  the  office  of  the  Palladium,  she 
called  on  another  solicitor  named  Kirk,  to  whom  she  was  also 
a  stranger,  to  perfect  for  her  an  assignment  of  the  policy  of 
that  office  to  Mr.  Wainwright ;  this  the  solicitor  did  by  writ- 
ing in  ink  over  words  pencilled  in  the  hand-writing  of  Mr. 
Wainwright,  and  witnessing  her  signature.  On  that  even- 
ing, Miss  Abercrombie  accompanied  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wain- 
wright and  her  sister  to  the  play,  as  she  had  done  the  pre- 
ceding evening,  and  partook  of  oysters,  or  lobsters,  and  por- 
ter, after  their  return.  The  weather  was  wet  ;  she  had 
walked  home,  as  she  had  done  the  evening  before ;  and  in 
the  night  suffered  from  illness,  which  was  attributed  to  cold. 
She  continued  ill,  however,  and,  in  a  day  or  two,  Dr.  Lo- 


THOMAS    GRIFFITHS    WAINWRIGHT.  141 

cock  was  called  in  by  Mr.  Wainwright,  found  her  laboring 
under  derangement  of  stomach,  and  prescribed  for  her  sim- 
pie  remedies.  She  continued  indisposed,  but  he  entertained 
no  serious  apprehensions  until  he  was  sent  for  on  the  21st, 
when  she  died.  On  that  morning  a  powder  which  Dr.  Lo- 
cock  did  not  recollect  ever  prescribing,  was  administered  to 
her  in  jelly,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wainwright  quitted  her,  to 
take  a  long  walk  for  some  hours.  Soon  after  their  departure 
she  was  seized  with  violent  convulsions ;  the  physician  was 
sent  for,  and  was  shocked  by  her  condition,  and  by  her  ex- 
claiming, "  Oh,  Doctor,  these  are  the  pains  of  death  !"  He 
administered  proper  remedies  for  pressure  on  the  brain,  un- 
der which  she  was  then  laboring ;  the  symptoms  subsided, 
and  he  left  her  in  a  state  of  composure.  The  convulsions, 
however,  soon  returned  with  increased  violence  ;  the  attend- 
ant, in  alarm,  called  in  the  assistant  of  a  neighboring  apoth- 
ecary, in  the  emergency  ;  the  young  man  did  for  her  the  best 
that  human  skill  could  devise  ;  but  all  assistance  was  in  vain, 
and  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wainwright  returned  from  their 
walk,  she  was  dead.  An  examination  of  the  body  took  place, 
with  Mr.  Wainwright's  ready  concurrence,  which,  in  Doctor 
Locock's  apprehension,  left  no  reason  to  attribute  the  death 
to  other  than  natural  causes;  its  immediate  cause  was  obvi- 
ously pressure  on  the  brain;  and  the  sums,  amounting  to 
£18,000,  insured  on  her  life,  became  payable  to  Mr.  Wain- 
wright, as  her  executor,  though,  except  as  to  two  of  the  poli- 
cies— those  of  the  Palladium  and  the  Hope,  which  had  been 
assigned  to  him  by  poor  Helen — apparently,  at  least,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  sister. 

Suspicion,  however,  was  excited  ;  the  offices  resisted  the 
claim ;  Mr.  Wainwright  left  England  for  France,  where  he 
spent  several  years ;  and  after  delays,  occasioned  chiefly  by 
proceedings  in  Equity,  the  question  of  the  validity  of  the  pol- 
icies was  tried,  before  Lord  Abinger,  on  the  29th  of  June, 
1835,  in  an  action  by  Mr.  Wainwright,  as  executor  of  Miss 
Abercrombie,  on  the  Imperial's  policy.  Extraordinary  as 
were  the  circumstances  under  which  the  defence  was  made, 
it  rested  on  a  narrow  basis — on  the  allegation  that  the  insur- 
ance was  not,  as  it  professed  to  be,  that  of  Miss  Abercrombie, 
for  her  own  benefit,  but  the  insurance  of  Mr.  Wainwright, 
effected  at  hi§  cost,  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  on  the 


14'2  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

falsehood  of  representations  she  had  been  induced  to  make  in 
reply  to  inquiries  as  to  insurances  in  other  offices.  The  cause 
of  her  death,  if  the  insurance  was  really  hers,  was  immate- 
rial ;  and  though  surely  not  immaterial  in  the  consideration 
of  the  question,  whether  the  insurance  was  hers  or  Mr.  Wain- 
wright's,  was  thrown  out  of  the  case  by  Lord  Abinger.  That 
accomplished  judge,  who  had  been  the  most  consummate  ad- 
vocate of  his  time,  disposed  always  to  pleasurable  associa- 
tions, shrunk,  in  a  Civil  Court,  from  inquiries  which,  if  they 
had  been  directly  presented  on  a  criminal  charge,  would  have 
compelled  his  serious  attention  ;  stated  that  there  was  no  evi- 
dence of  other  crime  than  fraud  ;  and  intimated  that  the  de- 
fence had  been  injured  by  a  darker  suggestion.  The  jury, 
partaking  of  the  judge's  disinclination  to  attribute  the  most 
dreadful  guilt  to  a  plaintiff  on  a  Nisi  Prius  record,  and,  per- 
haps, scarcely  perceiving  how  they  could  discover  for  the 
imputed  fraud  an  intelligible  motive  without  it,  were  unable 
to  agree,  and  were  discharged  without  giving  a  verdict.  The 
cause  was  tried  again  before  the  same  judge,  on  the  3rd  De- 
cember following ; — when  the  counsel  for  the  defence,  fol- 
lowing the  obvious  inclination  of  the  Bench,  avoided  the  most 
fearful  charge,  and  obtained  a  verdict  for  the  office,  without 
hesitation,  sanctioned  by  Lord  Abinger's  proffered  approval 
to  the  jury. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Wainwright,  leaving  his  wife  and 
child  in  London,  had  acquired  the  confidence  and  enjoyed 
the  hospitality  of  the  family  of  an  English  officer,  residing 
at  Boulogne.  While  he  was  thus  associated,  a  proposal  was 
made  to  the  Pelican  Office  to  insure  the  life  of  his  host  for 
5000Z. ; — which,  as  the  medical  inquiries  were  satisfactorily 
answered,  was  accepted.  The  Office,  however,  received 
only  one  premium ;  for  the  life  survived  the  completion  of 
the  insurance  only  a  few  months ;  falling  after  a  very  short 
illness.  Under  what  circumstances  Mr.  Wainwright  lef\  Bou- 
logne after  this  event  is  unknown  ;  he  became  a  wanderer 
in  France ;  and  being  brought  under  the  notice  of  the  Cor^ 
rectional  Police,  as  passing  under  a  feigned  name,  was  ar- 
rested. In  his  possession  was  found  the  vegetable  poison 
called  strychnyne — which  leaves  little  trace  of  its  passage  in 
the  frame  of  its  victim — and  which,  though  unconnected  with 
any   specific  charge,   increased  his  liability  to    temporary 


THOMAS    GRIFFITHS   WAINWRIGHT.  143 

restraint,  and  led  to  a  six  months'  incarceration  at  Paris. 
After  his  release,  he  ventured  to  re-visit  London  ;  where,  in 
June,  1837,  soon  after  his  arrival,  he  was  met  in  the  street 
by  Forester,  the  police  officer,  who  had  identified  him  in 
France,  and  was  committed  for  trial  on  a  charge  of  forgery. 

The  offence  for  which  Mr.  Wainwright  was  thus  appre- 
hended was  not  very  heinous  of  hs  kind  ;  but  his  guilt  was 
clear,  and  the  punishment,  at  that  time,  capital.  It  consisted 
in  the  forgery  of  the  names  of  his  own  trustees  to  five  suc- 
cessive powers  of  attorney  to  sell  out  stock  settled  on  himself 
and  his  wife  upon  their  marriage,  which  his  exigences  from 
time  to  time  had  tempted  him  thus  to  realize.  The  Bank  of 
England,  by  whom  he  was  prosecuted,  consented  to  forego 
the  capital  charges  on  his  pleading  guilty  to  the  minor  of- 
fence of  uttering  in  two  of  the  cases,  which  he  did  at  the 
Old  Bailey  sessions  of  July,  1837,  and  received  sentence  of 
transportation  for  life.  In  the  meantime,  proceedings  were 
taken  on  behalf  of  Miss  Abercrombie's  sister,  Madeline,  who 
had  married  a  respectable  bookseller  named  Wheatley,  to 
render  the  insurances  available  for  her  benefit,  which  induced 
the  prisoner  to  offer  communications  to  the  Insurance  Offices 
which  might  defeat  a  purpose  entirely  foreign  to  his  own  ; 
and  which  he  hoped  inight  procure  him,  through  their  inter- 
cession, a  mitigation  of  the  most  painful  severities  incident 
to  his  sentence.  In  this  expectation  he  was  miserably  disap- 
pointed ;  for  though,  in  pursuance  of  their  promise,  the  Di- 
rectors of  one  of  the  Offices  made  a  communication  to  the 
Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home  Department,  the  result, 
instead  of  a  mitigation,  was  an  order  to  place  him  in  irons, 
and  to  send  him  to  his  place  of  punishment  in  a  vessel 
about  to  convey  three  hundred  convicts.  Thus  terminated 
the  European  career  of  the  "  kind  and  light-hearted  Ja- 
nus !" 

The  time  has  not  arrived  for  exhibiting  all  the  traits 
of  this  remarkable  person  ;  probably  before  it  shall  arrive, 
the  means  of  disclosing  them  will  be  lost,  or  the  subject  for- 
gotten ;  but  enough  may  be  found  disclosed  in  the  public  pro- 
ceedings from  which  we  have  taken  thus  far  our  narrative,  to 
supply  an  instructive  contrast  between  his  outer  and  inner 
life,  and  yet  more  instructive  indications  of  the  qualities 
which  formed  the  links  of  connection  between  them.     The 


144  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

defect  in  his  moral  nature  consisted  perhaps  chiefly  in  morbid 
self-esteem,  so  excessive  as  to  overwhelm  all  countervailing 
feelings,  and  to  render  all  the  interests  of  others,  all  duties, 
all  sympathies,  all  regards,  subservient  to  the  lightest  efforts, 
or  w^ishes,  or  enjoyments  of  the  wretclied  idol.  His  tastes 
appreciated  only  the  most  superficial  beauty  ;  his  vanities 
were  the  poorest  and  most  empty ;  yet  he  fancied  himself 
akin  to  greatness  ;  and  in  one  of  his  communications  from 
Newgate,  in  his  last  hours  of  hope,  he  claimed  for  himself 
"  a  soul  whose  nutriment  is  love,  and  its  offspring  art,  music, 
divine  song,  and  still  holier  philosophy."  When  writing 
from  the  hold  of  the  convict-ship,  to  complain  of  his  being 
placed  in  irons,  he  said — "  They  think  me  a  desperado. 
Me  !  the  companion  of  poets,  philosophers,  artists,  and  musi- 
cians, a  desperado!  You  will  smile  at  this, — no — I  think 
you  will  feel  for  the  man,  educated  and  reared  as  a  gentle- 
man, now  the  mate  of  vulgar  ruftians  and  country  bump- 
kins." This  shallow  notion  of  being  always  "  a  gentleman," 
— one  abstracted  ever  from  conventional  vulgarities — seems 
to  have  given  him  support  in  the  extremity  of  wretchedness 
and  infamy :  the  miserable  reed  he  leaned  on  ;  not  the  ruling 
passion — but  the  ruling  folly.  "  They  pay  me  respect  here, 
I  assure  you,"  said  he  to  an  acquaintance  who  visited  him 
in  Newgate;  "they  think  I  am  here  for  10,000^.;"  and  on 
some  of  the  convicts  coming  into  the  yard  with,  brooms  to 
perform  their  compulsory  labor  of  sweeping  it,  he  raised 
himself  up,  pulled  down  his  soiled  wristbands  and  exclaimed, 
with  a  faint  hilarity  : — "  You  see  those  people ;  they  are 
convicts  like  me  ; — but  no  one  dares  offer  me  the  broom  !" 
Circumstances  were  indeed  changed,  but  the  man  was  the 
same  as  when  he  elaborated  artistic  articles  for  the  "  Lon- 
don."*    To  the  last  he  seemed  to  be  undisturbed  by  remorse  ; 

*  It  may  not  be  uninteresting,  nor  wholly  uninstructive,  to  place  in 
contrast  with  this  person's  deplorable  condition,  a  specimen  of  his  com- 
position when  "  topping  the  part"  of  a  literary  coxcomb.  The  following 
is  a  portion  of  an  article  under  the  head  of"  Sentimentalities  on  the 
Fine  Arts  ;  by  .Tanus  Weathercock,  Esq.  To  be  continued  when  he 
is  in  the  humor  ;"   published  in  the  London  Magazine  for  March,  1820. 

"  I  (Janus)  had  made  a  tolerable  dinner  the  other  day  at  George's, 
and  with  my  mind  full  of  my  last  article,  was  holding  up  a  petit  verre 
d'eau  de  vie  de  Dantzic  to  the  waxen  candle  ;  watching  with  scient 
eye  the  nnmber  of  aureate  particles — some  swimming,  some  sinking 


THOMAS    GRIFFITHS    WAINWRIGHT.  145 

shocked  only  at  the  indignities  of  the  penal  condition  of  one 

imbued  with  tastes  so  refined,  that  all  causes  ought  to  give 
way  to  their  indulgence.     This  vanity,  nurtured  by  selfish- 

quiveringly,  through  the  oily  and  luscious  liquor,  as  if  informed  with 
life,  and  gleaming  like  golden  fish  in  the  Whang-ho,  or  Yellow  River 
(which,  by  the  way,  is  only  yellow  from  its  mud) :  so  was  I  em- 
ployed, when  suddenly  I  heard  the  day  of  the  month  (the  15th)  ejacu- 
lated in  the  next  box.  This  at  once  brought  me  back,  from  my  deli- 
cious reverie  to  a  sense  of  duty.  '  Contributions  must  be  forwarded  by 
the  18lh,  at  the  vfry  latest,'  were  the  Editor's  last  words  to  Janus,  and 
he  is  incapable  of  forgetting  them.  I  felt  my  vigorous  personal  identity 
instantly  annihilated,  and  resolved,  by  some  mystic  process,  into  a  part 
of  that  unimaginable  plurality  in  unity,  wherewithal  Editors,  Review- 
ers, and,  at  present,  pretty  commonly.  Authors,  clothe  themselves,  when, 
seated  on  tlie  topmost  tip  of  their  top-gallant  masts, — they  pour  forth 
their  oracular  dicta  on  the  groaning  ocean  of  London  spread  out  huge 
at  their  feet.  Forthwith,  We  (Janus)  sneaked  home  alone — poked  in 
the  top  of  our  hollow  fire,  wliich  spouted  out  a  myriad  of  flames,  roaring 
pleasantly,  as  chasing  one  another,  they  rapidly  escaped  up  the  chimney 
— exchanged  our  smart,  tight-waisted,  stiff-collared  coat,  for  an  easy 
chintz  gown,  with  pink  ribbons — lighted  our  new,  elegantly  gilt  French 
lamp,  having  a  ground  glass  globe,  painted  with  gay  flowers  and  gaudy 
butterflies,  hauled  forth  Portfolio  No.  9,  and  established  ourselves  cosily 
on  a  Grecian  couch  !  Then  we  (Janus)  stroked  our  favorite  tortoise- 
shell  cat  into  a  full  and  sonorous  purr;  and  after  that  our  nurse,  or 
maid-servant,  a  good-natured,  Venetian-shaped  girl  (having  first  placed 
on  the  table  a  genuine  flask  of  as  rich  Montepulsiano  as  ever  voyaged 
from  fair  Italia,)  had  gently,  but  firmly,  closed  the  door,  carefully  ren- 
dered air-tight  by  a  gilt-leather  binding,  (it  is  quite  right  to  be  parti- 
cular,) we  indulged  ourselves  in  a  complacent  consideration  of  the  rather 
elegant  figure  we  made,  as  seen  in  a  large  glass  placed  opposite  our 
chimney  mirror,  without,  however,  moving  any  limb,  except  the  left 
arm,  which  instinctively  filled  out  a  full  cut-glass  of  the  liquor  before  us, 
while  the  right  rested  inactively  on  the  head  of  puss  ! 

"  It  was  a  sight  that  turned  all  our  gall  into  blood.  Fancy,  com- 
fortable reader  !  Imprimis,  a  very  good-sized  room.  Item  :  A  gay 
Brussels  carpet  covered  with  garlands  of  flowers.  Item  :  A  fine  origi- 
nal cast  of  the  Venus  de  Medicis.  Item  :  some  choice  volumes,  in  still 
more  choice  old  French  moroquin,  with  water-tabby  silk  lining.  Item: 
Some  more  vols,  coated  by  the  skill  of  Roger  Payne,  and  '  our  Charles 
Lewis.'  Item :  A  piano,  by  Tomkinson.  Item  :  a  Damascus  sabre. 
Item  :  One  cat.  Item  :  A  large  Newfoundland  dog,  friendly  to  the  cat. 
Item  :  A  few  hot-house  plants  on  a  white  marble  slab.  Item:  A  deli- 
cious, melting  love-painting  by  Fuseli  ;  and  last,  not  least,  in  our  dear 
love,  we,  myself  (Janus)  I  Each,  and  the  whole,  seen  by  the  Cfireg- 
gio-kind  of  light,  breathed,  as  it  were,  through  the  painted  glass  of  the 
lamp  !  !  ! 

"  Soothed  into  that  amiable  sort  of  self-satisfaction  so  necessary  to 
7 


146  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

ness,  and  unchecked  by  religion,  became  a  disease,  perhaps 
amounting  to  vionomania,  and  yielding  one  lesson  to  repay 
the  world  for  his  existence  ;  that  there  is  no  state  of  the 
soul  so  dangerous  as  that  in  which  the  vices  of  the  sensualist 
are  envenomed  by  the  groveling  intellect  of  the  scorner. 


In  1819,  Mr.  Wordsworth,  encouraged  by  the  extending 
circle  of  his  earnest  admirers,  announced  for  publication  his 
"  Peter  Bell" — a  poem  written  in  the  first  enthusiasm  of 
his  system,  and  exemplifying,  amidst  beauty  and  pathos  of 
the  finest  essence,  some  of  its  most  startling  peculiarities. 
Some  wicked  jester,  gifted  with  more  ingenuity  and  boldness 
than  wit,  anticipated  the  real  "  Simon  Pure,"  by  a  false  one, 
burlesquing  some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  poet's  home- 
liest style.  This  grave  hoax  produced  the  following  letter 
from  Lamb,  appropriately  written  in  alternate  lines  of  red 
and  black  ink,  till  the  last  sentence,  in  which  the  colors  are 
alternated,  word  by  word — even  to  the  signature — and  "  Ma- 
ry's love,"  at  the  close  ;  so  that  "  Mary"  is  hlack,  and  her 
" love"  red. 

to  bir.  wordsworth. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

I  received  a  copy  of  "Peter  Bell"  a  week  ago,  and 
I  hope  the  author  will  not  be  offended  if  I  say  I  do  not  much 
relish  it.     The  humor,  if  it  is  meant   for  humor,  is  forced  ; 

the  bodying  out  those  deliciously  voluptuous  ideas,  perfumed  with  lan- 
guor, which  occasionally  swim  and  undulate  like  gauzy  glouds,  over  the 
brain  of  the  most  cold-blooded  men,  we  put  forth  our  hand  to  the  folio, 
which  leant  against  a  chair  by  the  sofa's  side,  and  at  bap-hazard  ex- 
tracted thence — 

"  Lancret's  charming  '  Repas  Italien.'     T.  P.  le  Bas,  Sculp. 

"  '  A  summer  party  in  the  greenwood  shade, 

With  lutes  prepared,  and  cloth  on  herbage  laid  ; 
And  ladies'  laughter  coming  Ihiough  the  air.' 

"  //.  Hunt's  '  Rimini.' 

"This  completed  the  charm.  We  immersed  a  well-seasoned,  prime 
pen  into  our  silver  inkstand  three  times,  shaking  off  the  loose  ink  again 
lingeringly,  while,  holding  the  print  fast  in  our  left  hand,  we  pursiied  it 
with  half-shut  eyes,  dallying  awhile  with  our  delight." 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  147 

and  then  the  price  ! — sixpence  would  have  been  dear  for  it. 
Mind  I  do  not  mean  your  "  Peter  Bell,"  but  a  "  Peter  Bell," 
which  preceded  it  about  a  week,  and  is  in  every  bookseller's 
shop  window  in  London,  the  type  and  paper  nothing  dificrii)g 
from  the  true  one,  the  preface  signed  W.  W.,  and  the  sup- 
plementary preface  quoting  as  the  author's  words  an  extract 
from  the  supplementary  preface  to  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads." 
Is  there  no  law  against  these  rascals  ?  I  would  have  this 
Lambert  Simnel  whipt  at  the  cart's  tail.  Who  started  the 
spurious  '•  P.  B."  I  have  not  heard.     I  sliould   guess  one  of 

the  sneering  ^ ;   but  I  have  heard  no  name  mentioned. 

"  Peter  Bell"  (not  the  mock  one)  is  excellent.  For  its  mat- 
ter I  mean.  I  cannot  say  that  the  style  of  it  satisfies  me. 
It  is  too  lyrical.  The  auditors  to  whom  it  is  feigned  to  be 
told,  do  not  arride  me.  I  had  rather  it  had  been  told  me, 
the  reader,  at  once.  "  Hartleap  Well"  is  the  tale  for  me  ; 
in  matter  as  good  as  this,  in  manner  infinitely  before  it,  in 
my  poor  judgment.  Why  did  you  not  add  "The  Waggon- 
er?"— Have" I  thanked  you  though,  yet,  for  "  Peter  Bell?" 

I  would  not  not  have  it  for  a  good   deal  of  money.     C 

is  very  foolish  to  scribble  about  books.  Neither  his  tongue 
nor  fingers  are  very  retentive.  But  I  shall  not  say  any 
thing  to  him  about  it.  He  would  only  begin  a  very  long 
story  with  a  very  long  face,  and  I  see  him  far  too  seldom 
to  tease  him  with  affairs  of  business  or  conscience  when  I 
do  see  him.  He  never  comes  near  our  house,  and  when 
we  go  to  see  him  he  is  generally  writing  or  thinking ;  he  is 
writing  in  his  study  till  the  dinner  comes,  and  that  is  scarce 
over  before  the  stage  summons  us  away.  The  mock  "  P 
B."  had  only  this  effect  on  me,  that  after  twice  reading  it 
over  in  hopes  to  find  something  diverting  in  it,  I  reached 
your  two  books  off  the  shelf,  and  set  into  a  steady  reading 
of  them,  till  I  had  nearly  finished  both  before  I  went  to  bed. 
The  two  of  your  last  edition,  of  course,  I  mean.  And  in 
the  morning  I  awoke,  determining  to  take  down  the  "  Excur- 
sion." I  wish  the  scoundrel  imitator  could  know  this.  But 
why  waste  a  wish  on  him  ?  I  do  not  believe  that  paddling 
about  with  a  stick  in  a  pond,  and  fishing  up  a  dead  author, 
whom  his  intolerable  wrongs  had  driven  to  that  deed  of  des- 
peration, would  turn  the  heart  of  one  of  these  obtuse  literary 
Bells.     There  is  no  Cock  for  such  Peters  j — hang  'em  !     I 


148        FINAL  MEMORIALS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

am  glad  this  aspiration  came  upon  the  red  ink  line.  It  is 
more  of  a  bloody  curse.  I  have  delivered  over  your  other 
presents  to  Alsager  and  G.  D.  A.,  I  am  sure,  will  value  it, 
and  be  proud  of  the  hand  from  which  it  came.  To  G.  D.  a 
poem  is  a  poem.  His  own  as  good  as  any  body's,  and,  God 
bless  him  !  any  body's  as  good  as  his  own  ;  for  I  do  not  think 
he  has  the  most  distant  guess  of  the  possibility  of  one  poem 
being  better  than  another.  The  gods,  by  denying  him  the 
very  faculty  itself  of  discrimination,  have  etfectually  cut  off 
every  seed  of  envy  in  liis  bosom.  But  with  envy,  they  exci- 
ted curiosity  also  ;  and  if  you  wish  the  copy  again,  which 
you  destined  for  him,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  find  it  again 
for  you,  on  his  third  shelf,  where  he  stufls  his  presentation 
copies,  uncut,  in  shape  and  matter  resembling  a  lump  of  dry 
dust ;  but  on  carefully  removing  that  stratum,  a  thing  like  a 
pamphlet  will  emerge.  I  have  tried  this  with  fifty  different 
poetical  works  that  have  been  given  G.  D.  in  return  for  as 
many  of  his  own  performances,  and  I  confess  I  never  had 
any  scruple  in  taking  my  own  again,  wherever  1  found  it, 
shaking  the  adherences  off — and  by  this  means  one  copy  of 
"  my  works  "  served   for  G.  D. — and   with  a  little  dusting, 

was   made  over   to   my  good  friend  Dr.  G ,  who  little 

thought  whose  leavings  he  was  taking  when  he  made  me  that 
graceful  bow.  By  the  way,  the  Doctor  is  the  only  one  of 
my  acquaintance  who  bows  gracefully,  my  town  acquaint- 
ance, I  mean.  How  do  you  like  my  way  of  writing  with 
tvvo  inks?  I  think  it  is  pretty  and  motley.  Suppose  Mrs. 
W.  adopts  it,  the  next  time  she  holds  the  pen  for  you.  My 
dinner  waits.  I  have  no  time  to  indulge  any  longer  in  these 
laborious  curiosities.  God  bless  you,  and  cause  to  thrive  and 
burgeon  whatsoever  you  write,  and  fear  no  inks  of  misera- 
ble poetasters. 

Yours  truly, 

Charles  Lamb. 
Mary's  love. 


The  following  letter,  probably  written  about  this  time,  is 
entirely  in  red  ink. 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  149 


to  mr.  coleridge. 

Dear  Coleridge, 

A  letter  written  in  the  blood  of  your  poor  friend 
would  indeed  be  of  a  nature  to  startle  you  ;  but  this  is 
nought  but  harmless  red  ink,  or,  as  the  witty  mercantile 
phrase  hath  it,  clerk's  blood.  Hang  'em  !  my  brain,  skin, 
flesh,  bono,  carcase,  soul,  time  is  all  theirs.  The  Royal  Ex- 
change, Grcshani's  Folly,  hath  more  body  and  spirit.  I  ad- 
mire some  of  's  lines  on  you,  and  I  admire  your  post- 
poning reading  them.  He  is  a  sad  tattler,  but  this  is  under 
the  rose.  Twenty  years  ago  he  estranged  one  friend  from 
me  quite,  whom  I  have  been  regretting,  but  never  could  re- 
gain since ;  he  almost  alienated  you  also  from  me,  or  me 
from  you,  I  don't  know  which.  But  that  breach  is  closed. 
The  dreary  sea  is  filled  up.  He  has  lately  been  at  work 
"  telling  again,"  as  they  call  it — a  most  gratuitous  piece  of 
misciiief — and  has  caused  a  coolness  betwixt  me  and  a  (not 
friend  exactly,  but)  intimate  acquaintance.  I  suspect,  also, 
he  saps  Manning's  faith  in  me,  who  am  to  Manning  more 
than  an  acquaintance.  Still  I  like  his  writing  verses  about 
you.  Will  your  kind  host  and  hostess  give  me  a  dinner  next 
Sunday,  and,  better  still,  nol  expect  us  if  the  weather  is  very 
bad  ?  Why  you  should  refuse  twenty  guineas  per  sheet  for 
Blackwood's  or  any  other  magazine  puzzles  my  poor  com- 
prehension. But,  as  Strap  says,  "  you  know  best."  I  have 
no  quarrel  with  you  about  prajprandial  avocations,  so  don't 
imagine  one.  That  Manchester  sonnet*  I  think  very  likely 
is  Capel  LofTt's.      Another  sonnet  appeared  with  the  same 

initials  in  the  same  paper,  which  turned  out  to  be  P 's. 

What  do  tlie  rascals  mean  ?  Am  I  to  have  the  fathering  of 
what  idle  rliymes  every  beggarly  poetaster  pours  forth  !  Who 
put  your  merrie  sonnet  "about  Brownie"  into  "Black- 
wood's?"    I  did  not.     So  no  more  till  we  meet. 

Ever  yours, 

C.  L. 

The  following  letter  (of  post-mark  1822)  is  addressed  to 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  when  Miss  Wordsworth  was 
visiting  her  brother,  Dr.  Wordsworth. 

*  A  sonnet  in  "  Blackwood,"  dated  Manchester,  and  signed  C.  L. 


150  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


TO    MISS    AVORDSWORTH. 

Mary  perfectly  approves  of  the  appropriation  of  the 
feathers,  and  wishes  them  peacock's  for  your  fair  niece's 
sake. 

Deak  Miss  Wordsworth, 

I  had  just  written  the  above  endearing  words  when 

M tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  with  an  invitation  to  cold 

goose  pie,  which  I  was  not  bird  of  that  sort  enough  to  decline. 

Mrs.  M ,  I  am  most  happy  to  say,  is  better.     Mary  has 

been  tormented  with  a  rheumatism,  which  is  leaving  her. 
I  am  suffering  from  the  festivities  of  the  season.  I  wonder 
how  my  misused  carcase  holds  it  out.  I  have  played  the 
experimental  philosopher  on  it,  that's  certain.  Willy*  shall 
be  welcome  to  a  mince-pie  and  a  bout  at  commerce  when- 
ever he  comes.  He  was  in  our  eye.  I  am  glad  you  liked 
my  new  year's  speculations ;  every  body  liked  them,  except 
the  author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope."  Disappointment 
attend  him !  How  I  like  to  be  liked,  and  what  I  do  to  be 
liked !  They  flatter  me  in  magazines,  newspapers,  and  all 
the  minor  reviews  ;  the  Quarterlies  hold  aloof.  But  they 
must  come  into  it  in  time,  or  their  leaves  be  waste  paper. 
Salute  Trinity  Library  in  my  name.  Two  special  things 
are  worth  seeing  at  Cambridge  :  a  portrait  of  Cromwell,  at 
Sydney,  and  a  better  of  Dr.  Harvey  (who  found  out  tliat 
blood  was  red),  at  Dr.  Davy's  ;  you  should  see  them.  Cole- 
ridge is  pretty  well ;  1  have  not  seen  him,  but  hear  often  of 
him  from  Allsop,  who  sends  me  hares  and  pheasants  twice 
a  week ;  I  can  hardly  take  so  fast  as  he  gives.  I  have  al- 
most forgotten  butcher's  meat,  as  plebeian.  Are  you  not 
glad  the  cold  is  gone  ?  I  find  winters  not  so  agreeable  as 
they  used  to  be  "  when  winter  bleak  had  charms  for  me." 
I  cannot  conjure  up  a  kind  similitude  for  these  snowy  flakes. 
Let  them  keep  to  twelfth  cakes  ! 

Mrs.  P ,  our  Cambridge   friend,   has  been  m  town. 

You  do  not  know  the  W 's  in  Trumpington  Street.    They 

are  capital  people.     Ask   any   body  you  meet  who  is  the 

*  Mr.  Wordsworth's  second  son,  then  at  the  Charter-house. 


LETTER    TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON.  151 

biggest  woman  in  Cambridge,   and  I'll  hold  you  a  wa^er 

they'll  say  Mrs, .      She  broke   down  two   benches  in 

Trinity  gardens :  one  on  the  confines  of  St.  John's,  wliich 
occasioned  a  litigation  between  the  Societies  as  to  repairinnf 
it.  In  warm  weather  she  retires  into  an  ice  cellar  (literally), 
and  dates  the  returns  of  the  years  from  a  hot  Thursday 
some  twenty  years  back.  She  sits  in  a  room  with  opposite 
doors  and  windows,  to  let  in  a  thorough  draft,  which  gives 
her  slenderer  friends  tooth-aches.  She  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
market  every  morning  at  ten,  cheapening  fowls,  which  I 
observe  the  Cambridge  poulterers  are  not  sufficiently  careful 
to  stump. 

Having  now  answered  most  of  the  points  contained  in 
your  letter,  let  me  end  with  assuring  you  of  our  very  best 
kindness,  and  excuse  Mary  for  not  liandling  the  pen  on  this 
occasion,  especially  as  it  has  fallen  into  so  much  better  hands. 
Will  Dr.  W.  accept  of  my  respects  at  the  end  of  a  foolish 
letter  ? 

C.  L. 

The  following  is  a  fragment  of  a  letter  addressed  in  the 
beginning  of  1823  to  Miss  Hutchinson,  at  Ramsgate,  whither 
she  had  gone  with  an  invalid  relative. 


TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

Dear  Miss  H., 


It  gives  me  great  pleasure  (the  letter  now  begins) 

to  hear  that  you  got  down  so  smoothly,  and  that  Mrs.  M 's 

spirits  ai'e  so  good  and  enterprising.  It  shows  whatever  her 
posture  may  be,  that  her  mind  at  least  is  not  supine.  I  hope 
the  excursion  will  enable  the  former  to  keep  pace  with  its 
outstripping  neighbor.  Pray  present  our  kindest  wishes  to 
her  and  all :  (that  sentence  should  properly  have  come  into 
the  Postscript,  but  we  airy  mercurial  spirits,  thei-e  is  no  keep- 
ing us  in).  "  Time"  (as  was  said  of  one  of  us)  "toils  after 
us  in  vain."  I  am  afraid  our  co-visit  with  Coleridge  was  a 
dream,  I  shall  not  get  away  before  the  end  (or  middle)  of 


152  FINAL    MEBIORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

June  ;  and  then  you  will  be  frog-hopping  at  Boulogne  ;  and, 
besides,  I  think  the  Gilmans  would  scarce  trust  him  with  us; 
I  have  a  malicious  knack  at  cutting  otT  apron-strings.  The 
Saints'  days  you  speak  of  have  long  since  fled  to  heaven,  with 
Astrsea,  and  the  cold  piety  of  the  age  lacks  fervor  to  recall 
them  ;  only  Peter  left  his  key — the  iron  one  of  the  two  that 
"  shuts  amain" — and  that  is  the  reason  I  am  locked  up. 
Meanwhile  of  afternoons  we  pick  up  primroses  at  Dalston, 
and  Mary  corrects  me  when  1  call  'em  cowslips.     God  bless 

you  all,  and  pray,  remember  me  euphoniously  lo  Mr.  G . 

That  Lee  Priory  must  be  a  dainty  bower.  Is  it  built  of 
flints  ? — and  does  it  stand  at  Kingsgate  ? 


The  following  letter  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson,  who  was 
composing  a  "  Life  of  De  Foe,"  in  reply  to  inquiries  on  va- 
rious points  of  the  great  novelist's  history,  is  dated  24th  Feb., 
1823. 

to  mr.  walter  wilson. 

Dear  W., 

I  write  that  you  may  not  think  me  neglectful,  not 
that  I  have  any  thing  to  say.  In  answer  to  your  questions, 
it  was  at  your  house  I  saw  an  edition  of"  Roxana,"  the  pre- 
face to  which  stated  that  the  author  had  left  out  all  that  part 
of  it  which  related  to  Roxana's  daughter  persisting  in  im- 
agining herself  to  be  so,  in  spite  of  the  mother's  denial  from 
certain  hints  she  had  picked  up,  and  throwing  herself  con- 
tinually in  her  mother's  way  (as  Savage  is  said  to  have  done 
in  the  way  of  his,  prying  in  at  windows  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
her),  and  that  it  was  by  advice  of  Southern,  who  objected  to 
the  circumstances  as  being  untrue,  wlien  the  rest  of  the  story 
Was  founded  on  fact ;  which  shows  S.  to  have  been  a  stu- 
pid-ish  fellow.  The  incidents  so  resemble  Savage's  story, 
that  I  taxed  Godwin  with  taking  Falkner  from  his  life  by  Dr. 
Johnson.  You  should  have  the  edition  (if  you  have  not  parted 
with  it),  for  I  saw  it  never  but  at  your  place  at  the  Mews' 
Gate,  nor  did  I  then  read  it  to  compare  it  with  my  own  ;  only 
I  know  the  daughter's  curiosity  is  the  best  part  of  my  "  Rox- 


LETTER    TO    MR.    WILSON.  153 

ana."  You  ask  me  for  two  or  three  pages  of  verse.  I  have 
not  written  as  much  shice  you  knew  mo.  [  am  altogether 
prosaic.  May  be  I  may  touch  off  a  sonnet  in  time.  I  do 
not  prefer  "  Colonel  Jack"  to  either  "  Robinson  Crusoe"  or 
"  Roxana."  I  only  spoke  of  the  beginning  of  it ;  his  childish 
history.  The  rest  is  poor.  I  do  not  know  any  where  any 
good  character  of  De  Foe  besides  what  you  mention.*  I  do 
not  know  that  Swift  mentions  him  ;  Pope  does.  I  forget  if 
D'Israeli  has.  Dunlop  I  think  has  nothing  of  him.  He  is 
quite  new  ground,  and  scarce  known  beyond  "Crusoe."  1 
do  not  know  who  wrote  "  Quarl."  I  never  thought  of  "  Quarl" 
as  having  an  author.  It  is  a  poor  imitation;  the  monkey  is 
the  best  in  it,  and  his  pretty  dishes  made  of  shell.  Do  you 
know  the  paper  in  the  "  Englishman"  by  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
giving  an  account  of  Selkirk  ?  It  is  admirable,  and  has  all 
the  germs  of  "Crusoe."  You  must  quote  it  entire.  Cap- 
tain G.  Carleton  wrote  his  own  memoirs  ;  they  are  about  Lord 
Peterborough's  campaign  in  Spain,  and  a  good  book.  "  Puz- 
zelli"  puzzles  me,  and  I  am  in  a  cloud  about  "  Donald  M'- 
Leod."  I  never  heard  of  them  ;  so  you  see,  my  dear  Wil- 
son, what  poor  assistance  I  can  give  in  the  way  of  informa- 
lion.  I  wish  your  book  out,  for  I  shall  like  to  see  any  thing 
about  De  Foe  or  from  you. 

Your  old  friend, 

C.  Lamb. 
From  my  and  your  old  compound. 


In  this  year.  Lamb  made  his  greatest  essay  in  housekeep- 
ing, by  occupying  Colnebrook  Cottage  at  Islington,  on  the 
banks  of  his  beloved  New  River.  There  occurred  the  im- 
mersion of  George  Dyer  at  noontide,  which  supplies  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  "The  Last  Essays  of  Elia;"  and  which  is 
veritably  related  in  the  following  letter  of  Lamb,  which  is  cu- 
rious, as  containing  the  germ  of  that  delightful  article,  and 

*  Those  who  wish  to  read  an  admirable  character  of  De  Foe,  asso- 
ciated with  the  most  valuable  information  respecting  his  personal  his- 
tory, should  revert  to  an  article  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review"  on  De  Foe, 
attributed  to  the  author  of  the  "  Lives  of  the  Statesmen  of  the  Common- 
wealth," and  of  the  delightful  "  Biography  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,"  almost 
as  charming  as  its  subject. 

■7* 


154  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

the  first  sketches  of  theBrandy-and-water  Doctor  therein  cele- 
brated as  miraculous. 


to  mrs.  hazlitt. 

Dear  Mrs.  H., 

Sitting  down  to  write  a  letter  is  such  a  painful  ope- 
ration to  Mary,  that  you  must  accept  me  as  her  proxy.  You 
have  seen  our  house.  What  I  now  tell  you  is  literally  true  ; 
yesterday  week  George  Dyer  called  upon  us,  at  one  o'clock, 
(bright  noon  dmj)  on  his  way  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Barbauld,  at 
Newington,  and  he  sat  with  Mary  about  half  an  hour.  The 
maid  saw  him  go  out,  from  her  kitchen  window,  but  sud- 
denly losing  sight  of  him,  ran  up  in  a  fright  to  Mary.  G. 
D.,  instead  of  keeping  the  slip  that  leads  to  the  gate,  had  de- 
liberately, staff  in  hand  ;  in  broad  open  day  ;  marched  into 
the  New  River.  He  had  not  his  spectacles  on,  and  you  know 
his  absence.  Who  helped  him  out,  they  can  hardly  tell,  but 
between  'em  they  got  him  out,  drenched  thro'  and  thro'.  A 
mob  collected  by  that  time,  and  accompanied  him  in.  "  Send 
for  the  Doctor  !"  they  said  :  and  a  one-eyed  fellow,  dirty  and 
drunk,  was  fetched  from  the  public  house  at  the  end,  where 
it  seems  he  lurks,  for  the  sake  of  picking  up  water  practice; 
having  formerly  had  a  medal  from  the  Humane  Society,  for 
some  rescue.  By  his  advice,  the  patient  was  put  between 
blankets  ;  and  when  I  came  home  at  four,  to  dinner,  I  found 
G.  D.  a-bed,  and  raving,  light-headed,  with  the  brandy-and- 
water  which  the  doctor  had  administered.  He  sung,  laughed, 
whimpered,  screamed,  babbled  of  guardian  angels,  would  get 
up  and  go  home  ;  but  we  kept  him  there  by  force  ;  and  by 
next  morning  he  departed  sobered,  and  seems  to  have  re- 
ceived no  injury.  All  my  friends  are  open-mouthed  about 
having  paling  before  the  river,  but  I  cannot  see,  because  an 
absent  man  chooses  to  walk  into  a  river,  with  his  eyes  open, 
at  mid-day,  I  am  any  the  more  likely  to  be  drowned  in  it, 
coming  home  at  midnight. 

I  have  had  the  honor  of  dining  at  the  Mansion  House,  on 
Thursday  last,  by  special  card  from  the  Lord  Mayor,  who 
never  saw  my  face,  nor  I  his ;  and  all  from  being  a  writer 
in  a  magazine  !     The  dinner  costly,  served  on  massy  plate, 


LETTER  TO  MISS  HUTCHINSON.  155 


champagne,  pines,  &c.  ;  forty-seven  present,  among  whom, 
the  Chairman,  and  two  other  Directors  of  the  India  Company. 
There's  for  you  !  and  got  away  pretty  sober  !  Quite  saved 
my  credit ! 

We  continue  to  like  our  house  prodigiously.     Our  kind 
remembrances  to  all. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

I  am  pleased  that  H.  liked  my  letter  to  the  Laureate. 


The  following  letter  to  Miss  Hutchinson,  at  Torquay,  re- 
fers  to  some  of  Lamb's  later  articles,  published  in  the  "Lon- 
don Magazine,"  which,  in  extending  its  size  and  pretensions 
to  a  three-and-sixpenny  miscellany,  had  lost  much  of  its 
spirit.  He  exults,  however,  in  his  veracious  "  Memoir  of 
Listen  !" 

TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

The  brevity  of  this  is  owing  to  scratching  it  off  at  my 
desk  amid  expected  interruptions.  By  habit,  I  can  write 
letters  only  at  office. 

Dear  Miss  H., 

Thank  you  for  a  noble  goose,  which  wanted  only 
the  massive  incrustation  that  we  used  to  pick-axe  open,  about 
this  season,  in  old  Gloster  Place.  When  shall  we  eat  another 
goose  pie  together  ?  The  pheasant,  too,  must  not  be  forgot- 
ten ;  twice  as  big,  and  half  as  good  as  a  partridge.  You  ask 
about  the  editor  of  the  "  London  ;"  I  know  of  none.  This 
first  specimen  is  flat  and  pert  enough  to  justify  subscribers 
who  grudge  t'other  shilling.  De  Quincy's  "  Parody"  was 
submitted    to   him  before  printed,   and  had  his  Probaium* 

*  Mr.  de  Quincy  had  commenced  a  series  of  letters  in  the  "  London 
Magazine,"  "  To  a  young  man  whose  education  has  been  neglected,"  as 
a  vehicle  for  conveying  miscellaneous  information  in  his  admirable  style. 
Upon  this  hint  Lamb,  with  the  assent  which  Mr.  de  Quincy  could  well 
afford  to  give,  contributed  a  parody  on  the  scheme  in  "  A  Letter  to 
an  Old  Gentleman,  whose  education  has  been  neglected." 


156  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

The  "  Horns"  is  in  a  poor  taste,  resembling  the  most  labored 
papers  in  the  "Spectator."  I  had  signed  it  "  Jack  Horner ;" 
but  Taylor  and  Hessy  said  it  would  be  thought  an  offensive 
article,  unless  I  put  my  known  signature  to  it,  and  wrung 
from  me  my  slow  consent.  But  did  you  read  the  "  Memoir 
of  Liston  ?" — and  did  you  guess  whose  it  was  ?  Of  all  the 
lies  I  ever  put  off,  I  value  this  most.  It  is  from  top  to  toe, 
every  paragraph,  pure  invention,  and  has  passed  for  gospel ; 
has  been  republished  in  newspapers,  and  in  the  penny  play- 
bills of  the  night,  as  an  authentic  account.  I  shall  certainly 
go  to  the  naughty  man  some  day  for  my  fibbings.  In  the  next 
number,  I  figure  as  a  theologian,  and  have  attacked  my  late 
brethren,  the  Unitarians.  What  Jack  Pudding  tricks  I  shall 
play  next,  I  know  not ;  I  am  almost  at  the  end  of  my  tether. 
Coleridge  is  quite  blooming,  but  his  book  has  not  budtl^d  yet. 
I  hope  I  have  spelt  Torquay  right  now,  and  that  this  will  find 
you  all  mending,  and  looking  forward  to  a  London  flight  with 
the  Spring.  Winter,  we  have  had  none,  but  plenty  of  foul 
weather.  I  have  lately  picked  up  an  epigram  which  pleased 
me — 

Two  noble  carls,  whom  if  I  quote. 
Some  folks  might  call  me  sinner. 

The  one  invented  half  a  coat, 
The  other  half  a  dinner. 

The  plan  was  good,  as  some  will  say. 

And  fitted  to  console  one  ; 
Because  in  this  poor  starving  day. 

Few  can  afford  a  whole  one. 

I  have  made  the  lame  one  still  lamer  by  imperfect  me- 
mory ;  in  spite  of  bald  diction  a  little  done  to  it  might  im- 
prove it  into  a  good  one.  You  have  nothing  else  to  do  at 
Torquay.  Suppose  you  try  it.  Well,  God  bless  you  all,  as 
wishes  Mary  most  sincerely,  with  many  thanks  for  letter,  &c. 

Elia. 

The  first  dawning  hope  of  Lamb's  emancipation  from  the 
India  House  is  suggested  in  the  following  note  to  Manning, 
proposing  a  visit,  in  which  he  refers  to  a  certificate  of  non- 
capacity  for  hard-desk-work,  given  by  a  medical  friend. 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  157 


TO    MR.    MANNING. 
My  DEAR  M., 

You  might  have  come  inopportunely  a  week  since, 
when  we  had   an   inmate.     At  present  and  for  as  long  as 

ever  you  like,  our  Castle  is  at  your  service.     I  saw  T 

yesternight,  who  has  done  for  me  what  may 

"  To  all  my  nights  and  days  to  come. 
Give  solely  sovran  sway  and  masterdom." 

But  I  dare  not  hope  for  fear  of  disappointment.  I  cannot  be 
more  explicit  at  present.  But  I  have  it  under  his  own  hand, 
thai  I  am  non-capacitated,  (I  cannot  write  it  m-)  for  business. 
O  joyous  imbecility  !  Not  a  susurration  of  this  to  any  body  f 
Mary's  love. 

C.  Lamb. 

The  dream  was  realized — in  April  1825,  the  "  world- 
wearied  clerk"  went  home  for  ever — with  what  delight  has 
been  told  in  the  elaborate  raptures  of  his  "  Superannuated 
Man,"  and  in  the  letters  already  published.  Tlie  following 
may  be  now  added  to  these,  illucidative  of  his  too  brief  rap- 
tures. 


to  mk.  wordsworth. 

Dear  W., 

I  write  post-haste  to  insure  a  frank.  Thanks  for 
your  hearty  congratulations  !  I  may  now  date  from  the  sixth 
week  of  my  "  Hogira,  or  Flight  from  Leadenhall."  I  have 
lived  so  much  in  it,  that  a  summer  seems  already  past  ;  and 
'tis  but  early  May  witii  you  and  other  people.  How  I  look 
down  on  the  slaves  and  drudges  of  the  world  !  Its  inhabit- 
ants are  a  vast  cotton-web  of  spin-spin-spinners !  O  the 
carking  cares  !  O  the  money-grubbers  !  Sempitemal  muck- 
worms ! 

Your  Virgil  I  have  lost  sight  of,  but  suspect  it  is  in  the 
hands  of  Sir  G.  Beaumont ;  I  think  that  circumstance  made 
me  shy  of  procuring  it  before.  Will  you  write  to  him  about 
it  ? — and  your  commands  shall  be  obeyed  to  a  tittle. 

Coleridge  has  just  finished  his  prize  Essay,  by  which,  if 


158  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

it  get  the  prize,  he'll  touch  an  additional  100/.  I  fancy.  His 
book,  too,  ("  Commentary  on  Bishop  Leighton,")  is  quite 
finished,  and  penes  Taylor  and  Hessey. 

In  the  "  London,"  which  is  just  out  (1st  May),  are  two 
papers  entitled  the  "  Superannuated  Man,"  which  I  wish  you 
to  see  ;  and  also,  1st  April,  a  little  thing  called  "  Barbara 

S ,"  a  story  gleaned  from  Miss  Kelly.     The  L.  M.,  if 

you  can  get  it,  will  save  my  enlargement  upon  the  topic  of 
my  manumission. 

I  must  scribble  to  make  up  my  Mains  crumence.  ;  for  there 
are  so  many  ways,  pious  and  profligate,  of  getting  rid  of 
money  in  this  vast  city  and  suburbs,  that  I  shall  miss  my 
THIRDS.  But  couragio!  I  despair  not.  Your  kind  hint  of 
the  cottage  was  well  thrown  out — and  anchorage  for  age  and 
school  of  economy,  when  necessity  comes ;  but  without  this 
latter,  I  have  an  unconquerable  terror  of  changing  place.  It 
does  not  agree  with  us.  I  say  it  from  conviction,  else  I  do 
sometimes  ruralize  in  fancy. 

Some  d — d  people  are  come  in,  and  I  must  finish  abruptly. 
By  d — d,  I  only  meant  deuced.  'Tis  these  suitors  of  Penel- 
ope that  make  it  necessary  to  authorize  a  little  for  gin  and 
mutton  and  such  trifles. 

Excuse  my  abortive  scribble. 

Yours,  not  more  in  haste  than  heart, 

C.  L. 

Love  and  recollection  to  all  the  Wms.,  Doras,  Maries 
round  your  Wrekin. 

Mary  is  capitally  well.  Do  write  to  Sir  G.  B.,  for  I  am 
shyish  of  applying  to  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LETTERS  OF  LAMB'S  LAST  YEARS,  1825 1834. 

How  imperfectly  the  emancipation,  so  rapturously  hailed, 
fulfilled  its  promises ;  how  Lamb  left  Islington  for  Enfield, 
and  there,  after  a  while,  subsided  into  a  lodger ;  and  how, 
at  last,  he  settled  at  Edmonton  to  die,  sufficiently  appear  in 
the  former  series  of  his  letters.  Those  which  occupy  this 
chapter,  scattered  through  nine  years,  have  either  been  sub- 
sequently communicated  by  the  kindness  of  the  possessors, 
or  were  omitted  for  some  personal  reason  which  has  lost  its 
force  in  time.  The  following,  addressed  in  1829  to  the 
Editor,  on  occasion  of  his  giving  to  a  child  the  name  of 
"Charles  Lamb,"  though  withheld  from  an  indisposition  to 
intrude  matters  so  personal  to  himself  on  the  reader,  may 
now,  on  his  taking  farewell  of  the  subject,  find  its  place. 

to  mr.  talfourd. 

Dear  Talfourd, 

You  could  not  have  told  me  of  a  more  friendly 
thing  than  you  have  been  doing.  I  am  proud  of  my  name- 
sake. I  shall  take  care  never  to  do  any  dirty  action,  pick 
pockets,  or  anyhow  get  myself  hanged,  for  fear  of  reflecting 
ignominy  upon  your  young  Chrisom.  I  have  now  a  motive 
to  be  good.  I  shall  not  oninis  moriar  ; — my  name  borne 
down  the  black  gulf  of  oblivion. 

I  shall  survive  in  eleven  letters — five  more  than  Csesar. 
Possibly  I  shall  come  to  be  knighted,  or  more !  Sir  C.  L. 
Talfourd,  Bart.  ! 

Yet  hath  it  an  aulhorish  twang  with  it,  which  will  wear 


160  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

out  with  my  name  for  poetry.  Give  him  a  smile  from  me 
till  I  see  him.  If  you  do  not  drop  down  before,  some  day  in 
the  week  after  next  I  will  come  and  take  one  night's  lodging 
with  you,  if  convenient,  before  you  go  hence.  You  shall 
name  it.  We  are  in  town  to-morrow  speciali  gratia,  but  by 
no  arrangement  can  get  up  near  you. 

Believe  us  both,  with  greatest  regards,  yours  and  Mrs. 
Talfourd's. 

Charles  Lamb-Philo-Talfourd. 

I  come  as  near  to  it  as  I  can.* 

*  The  child  vho  bore  the  name  so  honored  by  his  parents,  survived 
his  god-father  only  a  year — dying  at  Brighioii,  whither  he  had  been 
taken  in  the  vain  hope  of  restoration,  on  the  3rd  December,  1835.  Will 
the  reader  forgive  the  weakness  which  prompts  the  desire,  in  this  place, 
to  link  their  memories  together,  by  inserting  a  few  verses  which,  having 
been  only  published  at  the  end  of  the  last  small  edition  of  the  Editor's 
dramas,  may  have  missed  some  of  the  friendly  eyes  for  which  they  were 
written  ! 

Our  gentle  Charles  has  passed  away 
From  earth's  short  bondage  free. 
And  left  to  us  its  leaden  day, 
And  mist-enshrouded  sea. 

Here,  by  the  restless  ocean's  side. 

Sweet  hours  of  hope  have  flown. 
When  first  the  triumph  of  its  tide 

Seemed  omen  of  our  own. 

That  eager  joy  the  sea-breeze  gave, 

When  first  it  raised  his  hair, 
Sunk  with  each  day's  retiring  wave. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  prayer. 

The  sun-blink  that  through  drizzling  mist, 

To  flickering  hope  akin, 
Lone  waves  with  feeble  fondness  kiss'd, 

No  smile  as  faint  can  win  ; 

Yet  not  in  vain,  with  radiance  weak, 

The  heavenly  stranger  gleams — 
Not  of  the  world  it  lights  to  speak, 

But  that  from  whence  it  streams. 

That  world  our  patient  sufferer  sought, 

Serene  with  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  his  mounting  Spirit  caught 

1  he  wisdom  of  the  skies. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  161 

The  following  notes,  undated,  but  of  about  1829,  were 
addressed  to  Coleridge,  under  the  genial  care  of  Mr.  Oilman, 
at  Highgate : — 

With  boundless  love  it  look'd  abroad 

For  one  bright  moment  given  ; 
Shone  with  a  loveliness  thataw'd, 

And  quiver'd  into  Heaven. 

A  year,  made  slow  by  care  and  toil. 

Has  paced  its  weary  round, 
Since  Deaih  enrich'd  with  kindred  spoil 

The  snow-clad,  frost-ribb'd  ground. 

Then  Lamb,  with  whose  endearing  name 

Our  boy  we  proudly  graced. 
Shrank  from  the  warmth  of  sweeter  fame 

Than  mightier  bards  embraced. 

Still  'twas  a  mournful  joy  to  think 

Our  darling  might  supply 
For  years  on  earth,  a  living  link. 

To  name  that  cannot  die. 

And  though  such  fancy  gleam  no  more 

On  earthly  sorrow's  night. 
Truth's  nobler  torch  unveils  the  shore 

Which  lends  to  both  its  light. 

The  nursling  there  that  hand  may  take, 
,  None  ever  grasp'd  in  vaiti  ; 

And  smiles  of  well-known  sweetness  wake. 
Without  their  tinge  of  pain. 

Though  'twixt  the  Child  and  child-like  Bard, 

Late  seem'd  distinction  wide, 
Each  now  may  trace  in  Heaven's  regard. 

How  near  they  were  allied. 

Within  the  infant's  ample  brow    ■ 

Blythe  fancies  lay  unfurl'd. 
Which,  all  uncrush'd,  may  open  now. 

To  charm  a  sinless  world. 

Though  the  soft  spirit  of  those  eyes 

Might  ne'er  with  Lamb's  compete — 
Ne'er  sparkle  with  a  wit  as  wise. 

Or  melt  in  tears,  as  sweet  ; 

That  calm  and  unforgotten  look 

A  kindred  love  reveals. 
With  his  who  never  friend  forsook, 

Or  hurt  a  thing  that  feels. 


162  FIISrAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB, 


to  mr.  coleridge. 
Dear  C, 

Your  sonnet  is  capital.  The  paper  ingenious,* 
only  that  it  split  into  four  parts  (besides  a  side  splinter)  in 
the  carriage.  I  have  transferred  it  to  the  common  English 
paper,  manufactured  of  rags,  for  better  preservation.  I  never 
knew  before  how  the  "  Iliad"  and  "  Odyssey"  were  written. 
'Tis  strikingly  corroborated  by  observations  on  Cats.  These 
domestic  animals,  put  'em  on  a  rug  before  the  fire,  wink  their 
eyes  up,  and  listen  to  the  kettle,  and  then  purr,  which  is 
their  poetry. 

On  Sunday  week  we  kiss  your  hands  (if  they  are  clean). 
This  next  Sunday  I  have  been  engaged  for  some  time. 
With  remembrances  to  your  good  host  and  hostess, 

Yours,  ever, 

C.  Lamb. 

to  the  same. 

My  dear  Coleridge, 

With  pain  and  grief,  I  must  entreat  you  to  excuse 
us  on  Thursday.  My  head,  though  externally  correct,  has 
had  severe  concussion  in  my  long  illness,  and  the  very  idea 
of  an  engagement  hanging  over  for  a  day  or  two,  forbids  my 
rest,  and  I  get  up  miserable.     I  am  not  well  enough  for  com- 

In  thought  profound,  in  wildest  glee, 

In  sorrows  dark  and  stiange, 
The  soul  of  Lamb's  bright  infancy 

Endured  no  spot  or  change. 

From  traits  of  each  our  love  receives 

For  comfort,  nobler  scope  ; 
While  light,  which  child-like  genius  leaves, 

Confirms  the  infant's  hope  : 

And  in  that  hope  with  sweetness  fraught 

Be  aching  hearts  beguiled. 
To  blend  in  one  delightful  thought. 

The  Poet  and  the  Child  ! 

*  Some  gauzy  tissue  paper  on  which  the  sonnet  was  copied. 


LETTERS    TO    GILMAN.  163 


pany.     I  do  assure  j'ou,  no  other  thing  prevents  me  comintr. 

I  expect and  his  brothers    this  or  to-morrow  evening, 

and  it  worries  me  to  death  that  I  am  not  ostensibly  ill  enough 
to  put  'em  off.  I  will  get  better,  when  I  shall  hope  to  see 
your  nephew.  He  will  come  again.  Mary  joins  in  best 
love  to  the  Gilmans.  Do,  I  earnestly  entreat  you,  excuse 
me.  I  assure  you,  again,  that  1  am  not  fit  to  go  out  yet. 
Yours,  (though  shattered) 

C.  Lamb. 
Tuesday. 

The  next  two  notdels  are  addressed  to  Coleridge's  excel- 
lent host,  on  the  occasion  of  borrowing  and  returning  the 
works  of  Fuller: — 

TO    MR.    OILMAN. 

Pray  trust  me  witli  the  "  Church  History,"  as  well  as 
the  "  Worthies."  A  moon  shall  restore  both.  Also  give  me 
back  "  Him  of  Aquinium."  In  return  you  have  the  light  of 
7ny  countenance*     Adieu. 

P.  S.  A  sister  also  of  mine  comes  with  it.  A  son  of 
Nimshi  drives  her.  Their  driving  will  have  been  furious, 
impassioned.  Pray  God  they  have  not  toppled  over  the  tun- 
nel! I  promise  you  I  fear  their  steed,  bred  out  of  the  wind 
without  father,  semi-Melchisedec-ish,  hot,  phaetontic.  From 
my  country  lodgings  at  Enfield. 

C.L. 


to  the  same. 

Dear  Oilman, 

Pray  do  you,  or  S.  T.  C.  immediately  write  to  say 
you  have  received  back  the  golden  works  of  the  dear,  fine, 
silly  old  angel,  which  I  part  from,  bleeding,  and  to  say  how 
the  winter  has  used  you  all. 

It  is  our  intention  soon,  weather  permitting,  to  come  over 

*  A  sketch  of  Lamb,  by  an  amateur  artist. 


164  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LaBIB. 

for  a  day  at  Higligate  ;  for  beds  we  will  trust  to  the  Gate- 
House,  should  you  be  full ;  tell  me  if  we  may  come  casually, 
for  in  this  change  of  climate,  there  is  no  naming  a  day  for 
walking.     With  best  loves  to  Mrs.  Gilman,  &c., 

Yours,  mopish,  but  in  health, 

C.  Labib. 

I  shaU  be  uneasy  till  I  hear  of  Fuller's  safe  arrival. 


While  Lamb  was  residing  at  Enfield,  the  friendship 
which,  in  1824,  he  had  formed  with  Mr.  Moxon,  led  to  very 
frequent  intercourse,  destined,  in  after  years,  to  be  rendered 
habitual,  by  the  marriage  of  his  friend  with  the  young  lady 
whom  he  regarded  almost  as  a  daughter.  In  1828,  Mr. 
Moxon,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Hurst,  of  the  firm  of  Hurst, 
Chance  and  Co  ,  applied  to  Lamb  to  supply  an  article  for 
the  "  Keepsake,"  which  he,  always  disliking  the  flimsy 
elegancies  of  the  Annuals — sadly  opposed  to  his  own  ex- 
clusive taste  for  old,  standard,  moth-eaten  books ;  thus 
declined  : — 

to  mr.  moxon. 

My  dear  M., 

"  It  is  my  firm  determination  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  "  Forget-me-Nots" — pray  excuse  me  as  civilly  as  you 
can  to  Mr.  Hurst.  I  will  take  care  to  refuse  any  other  ap- 
plications. The  things  which  Pickering  has,  if  to  be  had 
again,  I  have  promised  absolutely,  you  know,  to  poor  Hood, 
from  whom  I  had  a  melancholy  epistle  yesterday  ;  besides 
that  Emma  has  decided  objections  to  her  own  and  her  friends' 
Album  verses  being  published  ;  but  if  she  gets  over  that, 
they  are  decidedly  Hood's. 

Till  we  meet,  farewell.     Loves  to  Dash.* 

C.  L. 

*  The  great  dog,  which  was,  at  one  timCj  the  constant  companion  of 
his  long  walks. 


LETTERS    TO    ROBiNSON.  165 


The  following:  introduced  Mr.  Patmore  to  Mr.  Moxon  : — 


to  mr.  moxon. 
Dear  M., 

My  friend  Patmore,  author  of  the  "  Months,"  a 
very  pretty  publication — of  sundry  Essays  in  the  "  London," 
"  New  Monthly,"  &.c.,  wants  to  dispose  of  a  volume  or  two 
of  "  Tales."  Perhaps  they  might  chance  to  suit  Hurst ;  but 
be  that  as  it  may,  he  will  call  upon  you  under  favor  of  my 
recommendalion  ;  and  as  he  is  returning  to  France,  where  he 
lives,  if  you  can  do  any  thing  for  him  in  the  Treaty  line,  to 
save  him  dancing  over  the  Channel  every  week,  1  am  sure 
you  will.  I  said  I'd  never  trouble  you  again  ;  but  how  vain 
are  the  resolves  of  mortal  man  !  P.  is  a  very  hearty, 
friendly,  good  fellow — and  was  poor  John  Scott's  second, — 
as  I  shall  be  yours  when  you  want  me.  May  you  never  be 
mine  ! 

Yours,  truly, 

C.  L. 

Enfeld. 

The  following  two  letters,  addressed  to  Mr.  H.  C.  Robin- 
son, when  afflicted  with  rheumatism,  are  in  Lamb's  wildest 
strain  of  mirth.  In  the  first,  he  pretends  to  endure  all  the 
pain  he  believes  his  friend  to  be  suffering,  and  attributes  it 
to  his  own  incautious  liabits  ;  in  the  second  he  attributes  the 
suffering  to  his  friend  in  a  strain  of  exaggeration,  probably 
intended  to  make  the  reality  more  tolerable  by  compari- 
son : — 

to  mr.  h.  c.  robinson. 

Dear  Robinson, 

We  are  afraid  you  will  slip  from  us  from  England 
without  again  seeing  us.  It  would  be  charity  to  come  and 
see  one.  I  have  these  three  days  been  laid  up  with  strong 
rheumatic  pains,  in  loins,  back,  shoulders.  I  shriek  some- 
times from  the  violence  of  them.  I  get  scarce  any  sleep, 
and  the  consequence  is,  I  am  restless,  and  want  to  change 


166  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

sides  as  I  lie,  and  I  cannot  turn  without  resting  on  my  hands, 
and  so  turning  all  my  body  all  at  once,  like  a  log  with  a 
lever.  While  this  rainy  weather  lasts  I  have  no  hope  of  al- 
leviation. I  have  tried  flannels  and  embrocation  in  vain. 
Just  at  the  hip  joint  the  pangs  are  sometimes  so  excruciating, 
that  I  cry  out.  It  is  as  violent  as  the  cramp,  and  far  more 
continuous.  I  am  ashamed  to  whine  about  these  complaints 
to  you,  who  can  ill  enter  into  them  ;  but  indeed  they  are 
sharp.  You  go  about,  in  rain  or  fine,  at  all  hours,  without 
discommodity.  I  envy  you  your  immunity  at  a  time  of  life 
not  much  removed  from  my  own.  But  you  owe  your  ex- 
emption to  temperance,  which  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  pursue. 
I,  in  my  lifetime,  have  had  my  good  things.  Hence  my 
frame  is  brittle — yours  as  strong  as  brass.  I  never  knew  any 
ailment  you  had.  You  can  go  out  at  night  in  all  weathers, 
sit  up  all  hours.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  moralize,  I  only  wish 
to  say  that  if  you  are  inclined  to  a  game  of  double-dumby,  I 
would  try  and  bolster  up  myself  in  a  chair  for  a  rubber  or 
so.  My  days  are  tedious,  but  less  so,  and  less  painful,  than 
my  nights.  May  you  never  know  the  pain  and  difficulty  I 
have  in  writing  so  much !  Mary,  who  is  most  kind,  joins  in 
the  wish ! 

C.  Lamb. 
April  10th,  1829. 

THE  COMPANION  LETTER  TO  THE  SAME. 
(a  week  afterwards.) 

I  do  confess  to  mischief.  It  was  the  subtlest  diabolical 
piece  of  malice  heart  of  man  has  contrived.  I  have  no  more 
rheumatism  than  that  poker.  JNever  was  freer  from  all  pains 
and  aches.  Every  joint  sound,  to  the  tip  of  the  ear  from  the 
extremity  of  the  lesser  loe.  The  report  of  thy  torments  was 
blown  circuitously  here  from  Bury.  I  could  not  resist  the 
jeer.  I  conceived  you  writhing,  when  you  should  just  re- 
ceive my  congratulations.  How  mad  you'd  be.  Well,  it  is 
not  my  method  to  inflict  pangs.  I  leave  that  to  Heaven. 
But  in  the  existing  pangs  of  a  friend,  I  have  a  share.  His 
disquietude  crowns  my  exemption.  I  imagine  you  howling  ; 
and  I  pace  across  the  room,  shooting  out  my  free  arms,  legs, 
&c.,  this  way  and  that  way,  with  an  assurance  of  not  kind- 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  167 

ling  a  spark  of  pain  from  them.  I  deny  that  Nature  meant 
us  to  sympathize  with  agonies.  Those  face  contortions,  re- 
tortions, distortions,  have  the  merriness  of  antics.  Nature 
meant  them  for  farce — not  so  pleasant  to  the  actor,  indeed  ; 
but  Grimaldi  cries  when  we  laugh,  and  it  is  but  one  that  suf- 
fers to  make  thousands  rejoice. 

You  say  that  shampooing  is  ineffectual.  Bui,  per  se,  it 
is  good,  to  show  the  introvolutions,  extravolutions  of  which 
the  animal  frame  is  capable — to  show  what  the  creature  is 
receptible  of,  short  of  dissolution. 

You  are  worse  of  nights,  an't  you  ?  You  never  was 
rack'd,  was  you  ?  I  should  like  an  authentic  map  of  those 
feelings. 

You  seem  to  have  the  flying  gout.  You  can  scarcely 
screw  a  smile  out  of  your  face,  can  you  ?  1  sit  at  immunity 
and  sneer  ad  lihitmn.  'Tis  now  the  time  for  you  to  make 
good  resolutions.  I  may  go  on  breaking  'em  for  any  thing 
the  worse  I  find  myself.  Your  doctor  seems  to  keep  you  on 
the  long  cure.  Precipitate  healings  are  never  good.  Don't 
come  while  you  are  so  bad ;  J  shan't  be  able  to  attend  to 
your  throes  and  the  dumby  at  once.  I  should  like  to  know 
how  slowly  the  pain  goes  off.  But  don't  write,  unless  the 
motion  will  be  likely  to  make  your  sensibility  more  exquisite. 
Your  affectionate  and  truly  healthy  friend, 

C.  Lamb. 

Mary  thought  a  letter  from  me  might  amuse  you  in  your 
torment. 

April  17«A,  1829. 

The  following  graphic  sketch  of  the  happy  temperament 
of  one  of  Lamb's  intimate  friends,  now  no  more,  is  contained 
in  a  letter  to — 

MR.  "WORDSWORTH. 

is  well,  and   in    harmony  with  himself  and  the 


world.  I  don't  know  how  he,  and  those  of  his  constitution, 
keep  their  nerves  so  nicely  balanced  as  they  do.  Or,  have 
they  any  ?  Or,  are  they  made  of  packthread  ?  He  is  proof 
against  weather,  ingratitude,  meat  underdone,  every  weapon 
of  fate.     I  have  just  now  a  jagged  end  of  a  tooth  pricking 


168  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

against  rny  tongue,  which  meets  it  halfway,  in  a  wantonness 
of  provocation  ;  and  there  they  go  at  it,  the  tongue  pricking 
itself,  like  the  viper  against  the  file,  and  the  tooth  galling  all 
the  gum,  inside  and  out  to  torture  ;  tongue  and  tooth,  tooth 
and  tongue,  hard  at  it ;  and  I  to  pay  the  reckoning,  till  all 
my  mouth  is  as  hot  as  brimstone  ;  and  I'd  venture  the  roof  of 
my  mouth,  that  at  this  moment,  at  which  I  conjecture  my 
full-happiness'd  friend  is  picking  his  crackers,  that  not  one  of 
the  double  I'ows  of  ivory  in  his  privileged  mouth  has  as  much 
as  a  flaw  in  it,  but  all  perform  their  functions,  and,  having 
performed  them,  expect  to  be  picked,  (luxurious  steeds  !)  and 
rubbed  down.  I  don't  think  he  could  be  robbed,  or  have  his 
house  set  on  fire,  or  even  want  money.  I  have  heard  him 
express  a  similar  opinion  of  his  own  infallibility.  I  keep  act- 
ing here  Heautontimorumenos. 

******* 

Have  you  seen  a  curious  letter  in  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
by  C.  L.,*  the  genius  of  absurdity,  respecting  Bonaparte's 
suing  out  his  Habeas  Corpus  ?  That  man  is  his  own  moon. 
He  has  no  need  of  ascending  into  that  gentle  planet  for  mild 
influences. 


In  1830,  Lamb  tried  the  experiment  of  lodging  a  little 
while  in  London ;  but  Miss  Lamb's  malady  compelled  him 
to  return  to  the  solitude  of  Enfield.  He  thus  communicates 
the  sad  state  of  his  sister  : — 


to  mr.  moxon. 
Dear  Moxon, 

I   have   brought  my  sister  to  Enfield,  being  sure 
that  she  had  no  hope  of  recovery  in  London.     Her  state  of 

*  Capel  Lofft,  a  barrister,  residing  in  Suffolk,  a  well-known  whig, 
and  friend  of  Major  Wyvil  and  Major  Cariwright,  who  sometimes  half 
vexed  Lamb  by  signing,  as  lie  had  a  right,  their  common  initials  to  a 
sonnet.  He  wrote  a  very  vehement  letter,  contending  that  the  deten- 
tion of  Napoleon  on  board  a  vessel  off  the  coast,  preparatory  to  his  being 
sent  to  St.  Helena,  was  illegal,  and  that  the  captain  of  the  vessel  would 
be  compelled  to  surrender  him  in  obedience  to  a  writ  of  Habeas  Cor- 
pus. 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  169 


mind  is  deplorable  beyond  any  example.  I  almost  fear  whe- 
ther she  has  strength  at  her  time  of  life  ever  to  get  out  of  it. 
Flere  she  must  be  nursed,  and  neither  see  nor  hear  of  any 
thing  in  the  world  out  of  her  sick  chamber.  The  mere 
hearing  that  Southey  had  called  at  our  lodgings,  totally  upset 
her.  Pray  see  him,  or  hear  of  him  at  Mr.  Rickman's,  and 
excuse  my  not  writing  to  him.  I  dare  not  write  or  receive  a 
letter  in  her  presence ;  every  little  talk  so  agitates  her. 
Westwood  will  receive  any  letter  for  me,  and  give  it  me 
privately. 

Pray  assure  Southey  of  my  kindliest    feelings    towards 
him,  and,  if  you  do  not  see  him,  send  this  to  him. 

Kindest   remembrances  to  your  sister,    and   believe  me 
ever 

Yours, 
C.  Lamb. 


Remember  me  kindly  to  the  Allsops. 


The  following  note  to  Mr.  Moxon,  on  some  long  forgotten 
occasion  of  momentary  displeasure,  the  nature  and  object  of 
which  is  uncertain,  contains  a  fantastical  exaggeration  of 
anger,  which,  judged  by  those  who  knew  the  writer,  will 
only  illusti'atc  the  entire  absence  of  all  the  bad  passions  of 
hatred  and  contempt  it  feigns. 


to  mr.  moxon. 

Dear  M., 

Many  thanks  for  the  books  ;  but  most  thanks  for 
one  immortal  sentence  :  "  If  I  do  not  cheat  him,  never  trust 
me  again."  I  do  not  know  whether  to  admire  most,  the  wit 
or  justness  of  the  sentiment.  It  has  my  cordial  approbation. 
My  sense  oi  meum  and  tuum  applauds  it.  I  maintain  it,  the 
eighth  commandment  hath  a  secret  special  reservation,  by 
which  the  reptile  is  exempt  from  any  protection  from  it.  As 
a  dog,  or  a  nigger,  he  is  not  the  holder  of  property.  Not  a 
ninth  of  what  he  detains  from  the  world  is  his  own.  Keep 
your  hands  from  picking  and  stealing  is  no  way  referable  to 
8 


170  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


his  acquists.  I  doubt  whether  beavmg  false  vvhness  against 
thy  neighbor  at  all  contemplated  this  possible  scrub.  Could 
Moses  have  seen  the  speck  in  vision  ?  An  ex  fost  facto  law 
alone  could  relieve  him;  and  we  are  taught  to  expect  no 
eleventh  commandment.  The  outlaw  to  the  Mosaic  dispen- 
sation— unworthy  to  have  seen  Moses  behind  ! — to  lay  his 
desecrating  hands  upon  Elia !  Has  the  irreverent  ark- 
toucher  been  struck  blind,  I  wonder?  The  more  I  think  of 
him,  the  less  I  think  of  him.  His  meanness  is  invisible  with 
aid  of  solar  microscope.  My  moral  eye  smarts  at  him.  The 
less  flea  that  bites  little  fleas  !  The  great  Beast  !  the  beg- 
garly NiT ! 

More  when  we  meet ;  mind,  you'll  come,  two  of  you  ; 
and  couldn't  you  get  off"  in  the  morning,  that  we  may  have 
a  day-long  curse  at  him,  if  curses  are  not  disallowed  by  de- 
scending so  low  ?     Amen.     Maledicatur  in  extremis  ! 

C.  L. 

In  the  Spring  of  the  year,  Mr.  Murray,  the  eminent  pub- 
lisher, through  one  of  Lamb's  oldest  and  most  cherished 
friends,  Mr.  Ayrton,  proposed  that  he  should  undertake  a 
continuation  of  his  Specimens  of  the  Old  English  Dramatists. 
The  proposal  was  communicated  by  Mr.  Ayrton  to  Lamb, 
then  at  Enfield,  and  then  too  painfully  anxious  for  the  re- 
covery of  Miss  Isola,  who  was  dangerously  ill  in  Suffolk,  to 
make  the  arrangement  desired.     The  following  is  the  re- 

piy:— 

TO    MR.    AYRTON. 

Mr.  Westwood's,  Chase  Side,  Enfield, 
lAth  March,  1630. 
My  DEAR  Ayrton, 

Your  letter,  which  was  only  not  so  pleasant  as  your 
appearance  would  have  been,  has  revived  some  old  images ; 
Phillips,*  (not  the  Colonel,)  whh  his  few  hairs  bristling  up  at 

*  Edward  Phillips,  Esq,,  Secretary  to  the  Right  Hon.  Charles  Ab- 
bott, Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  "Colonel"'  alluded  to 
was  the  Lieutenant  of  Marines  who  accompanied  Capt.  Cook  in  his 
last  voyage,  and  on  shore  with  that  great  man  when  he  fell  a  victim 
to  his  humanity.     On  the  death  of  his  Commander,  Lieutenant  Phillips, 


LETTER    TO    AYRTON.  171 


the  charge  of  a  revoke,  which  lio  declares  impossible  ;  the 
old  Captain's  significant  nod  over  the  right  shoulder*  (was  it 

not  ?)  ;   Mrs.  B 's  determined  questioning  of  the  score, 

after  tlie  game  was  absolutely  gone  to  the  d — 1  ;  the  plain, 
but  hospitable  cold  boiled-beef  suppers  at  sideboard ;  all 
whicli  fancies,  redolent  of  middle  age  and  strengthful  spirits, 
comes  across  us  ever  and  anon  in  this  vale  of  deliberate 
senectitude,  ycleped  Enfield. 

You  imagine  a  deep  gulf  between  you  and  us;  and  there 
is  a  pitiable  hiatus  in  kind  between  St.  James's  Park  and  this 
extremity  of  Middlesex.  But  the  mere  distance  in  turnpike 
roads  is  a  trifle.  The  roof  of  a  coach  swings  you  down  in 
an  hour  or  two.  We  have  a  sure  hot  joint  on  a  Sunday, 
and  when  had  we  better  ?  I  suppose  you  know  that  ill 
health  has  obliged  us  to  give  up  housekeeping,  but  we  have 
an  asylum  at  the  very  next  door — only  twenty-four  inches 
further  from  town,  which  is  not  material  in  a  country  expe- 
dition— where  a  table  d'hote  is  kept  for  us,  without  trouble 
on  our  parts,  and  we  adjourn  after  dinner,  when  one  of  the 
old  world  (old  friends)  drops  casually  down  among  us. 
Come  and  find  us  out;  and  seal  our  judicious  change  with 
your  approbation,  whenever  the  whim  bites,  or  the  sun 
prompts.  No  need  of  announcement,  for  we  are  sure  to  be 
at  home. 

I  keep  putting  off  the  subject  of  my  answer.  In  truth  I 
am  not  in  spirits  at  present  to  see  Mr.  Murray  on  such  a 
business ;  but  pray  offer  him  my  acknowledgments,  and  an 
assurance  that  1  should  like  at  least  one  of  his  propositions, 
as  I  have  so  much  additional  matter  for  the  Specimens,  as 
might  make  two  volumes  in  all ;  or  one,  (new  edition)  omit- 
ting such  better  known  authors  as  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
Jon  son,  &c. 

But  we  are  both  in  trouble  at  present.  A  very  dear 
young  friend  of  ours,  who  passed  her  Christmas  holidays  here, 

himself  wounded,  swam  ofi"  to  the  boats  ;  but  seeing  one  of  his  ma- 
rines struggling  in  the  water  to  escape  the  natives  who  were  pursuing 
him,  gallantly  swam  back,  protected  his  man  at  the  peril  of  his  own 
life,  and  both  reached  their  boat  in  safety.  He  afterwards  married 
that  accomplished  and  amiable  daughter  of  Dr.  Burney  whose  name  so 
frequently  occurs  in  the  Diary  and  Correspondence  of  her  sister,  Mad- 
ame D'Arblay. 

*  Captain  (afterwards  Admiral)  James  Burney. 


172  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

has  been  taken  dangerously  ill  with  a  fever,  from  which  she 
is  very  precariously  recovering,  and  I  expect  a  summons  to 
fetch  her  when  she  is  well  enough  to  bear  the  journey  from 
Bury.  It  is  Emma  Isola,  with  whom  we  got  acquainted  at 
our  first  visit  to  your  sister,  at  Cambridge,  and  she  has  been 
an  occasional  inmate  with  us — and  of  late  years  much  more 
frequently — ever  since.  While  she  is  in  this  danger,  and 
till  she  is  out  of  it,  and  here  in  a  probable  way  to  recovery, 
I  feel  that  I  have  no  spirits  for  an  engagement  of  any  kind. 
It  has  been  a  terrible  shock  to  us ;  therefore  I  beg  that  you 
will  make  my  handsomest  excuses  to  Mr.   Murray. 

Our  very  kindest  love  to  Mrs.  A.  and  the  younger 
A.'s. 

^:  *  *  *  *  * 

Your  unforgotten, 

C.  Lamb. 

Good  tidings  soon  reached  Lamb  of  Miss  Isola's  health, 
and  he  went  to  Farnham  to  bring  her,  for  a  month's  visit,  to 
Enfield.  The  following  are  portions  of  letters  addressed  to 
the  lady  from  whose  care  he  had  removed  her,  after  their 
arrival  at  home,  other  parts  of  which  have  been  already 
published. 

TO    MRS.    WILLIAMS. 

Enfield,  April  2nd,  1830. 

Dear  Madam, 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  letting  you  know  Miss 
Isola  has  suffered  very  little  from  fatigue  on  her  long  jour- 
ney ;  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  came  home  rather  the  more 
tired  of  the  two.  But  I  am  a  very  unpractised  traveler. 
We  found  my  sister  very  well  in  health,  only  a  little  impa- 
tient to  see  her ;  and,  after  a  few  hysterical  tears  for  glad- 
ness, all  was  comfortable  again.  We  arrived  here  from 
Epping  between  five  and  six. 

How  I  employed  myself  between  Epping  and  Enfield, 
the  poor  verses  in  the  front  of  my  paper  may  inform  you, 
which  you  may  please  to  cliristcn  an  "  Acrostic  in  a  cross- 
road," and  which  I  wisii  were  wortliier  of  the  lady  they  re- 
fer to,  but  trust  you  will  plead  my  pardon  to  her  on  a  sub- 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  173 

ject  SO  delicate  as  a  lady's  good  name.  Your  candor  must 
acknowledge  that  they  arc  written  straight.  And  now,  dear 
madam,  I  have  left  myself  liardly  space  to  express  my  sense 
of  the  friendly  reception  I  found  at  Farnham.  Mr.  Williams 
will  tell  you  that  we  had  the  pleasure  of  a  slight  meeting 
with  him  on  the  road,  where  I  could  almost  have  told  him, 
but  that  it  seemed  ungracious,  that  such  had  been  your  hospi- 
tality,  that  I  scarcely  missed  the  good  master  of  the  family  at 
Farnham,  though  heartily  I  should  rejoice  to  have  made  a 
little  longer  acquaintance  with  him.  I  will  say  nothing  of 
our  deeper  obligations  to  both  of  you,  because  I  think  we 
agreed  at  Farnham  that  gratitude  may  be  over-exacted  on 
the  part  of  the  obliging,  and  over-expressed  on  the  part  of 
the  obliged  person. 

Miss  Isola  is  writing,  and  will  tell  you  that  we  are 
going  on  very  comfortably.  Her  sister  is  just  come.  She 
blames  my  last  verses,  as  being  more  written  on  Mr.  Will- 
iams than  yourself;  but  how  should  I  have  parted  whom  a 
Superior  Power  has  brought  together  ?  I  beg  you  will  joint- 
ly accept  of  all  our  best  respects,  and  pardon  your  obsequi- 
ous, if  not  troublesome  correspondent, 

C.  L. 

P.  S. — I  am  the  worst  folder-up  of  a  letter  in  the  world, 
except  certain  Hottentots,  in  the  land  of  Caffre,  who  never 
fold  up  their  letters  at  all,  writing  very  badly  upon  skins,  &c. 

The  following  contains  Lamb's  account  of  the  same  jour- 
ney, addressed  to  Buxton  : — 

TO    MRS.    HAZLITT. 

Enfield,  Saturday. 
Mary's  love  ?     Yes.     Mary  Lamb  is  quite  well. 

Dear  Sarah, 

I  found  my  way  to  Northaw,  on  Thursday,  and 
saw  a  very  good  woman  behind  the  counter,  who  says  also 
that  you  are  a  very  good  lady.     I  did  not  accept  her  offered 


174  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

glass  of  wine  (home-made,  I  take  it),  but  craved  a  cup  of  ale, 
with  which  I  seasoned  a  slice  of  cold  lamb,  from  a  sand- 
wich box,  which  I  ate  in  her  back  parlor,  and  proceeded 
for  Berkhampstead,  &c.  ;  lost  myself  over  a  heath,  and  had 
a  day's  pleasure.  I  wish  you  could  walk  as  1  do,  and  as 
you  used  to  do.  I  am  soriy  to  find  you  are  so  poorly ;  and, 
now  I  have  found  my  way,  I  wish  you  back  at  Goody  Tom- 
linson's.  What  a  pretty  village  'tis.  I  should  have  come 
sooner,  but  was  waiting  a  summons  to  Bury.  Well,  it  came, 
and  I  found  the  good  parson's  lady  (he  was  from  home)  ex- 
ceedingly hospitable. 

Poor  Emma,  the  first  moment  we  were  alone,  took  me  into 
a  corner,  and  cried,  "  Now  pray  don't  drink ;  do  check 
yourself  after  dinner  for  my  sake,  and  when  we  get  home  to 
Enfield,  you  shall  drink  as  much  as  ever  you  please,  and  I 
won't  say  a  word  about  it."  How  I  behaved,  you  may  guess, 
when  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Williams  and  I  have  written 
acrostics  on  each  other,  and  "  she  hoped  that  she  should  have 
no  reason  to  regret  Miss  Isola's  recovery,  by  its  depriving  ]ie,r 
of  our  begun  correspondence."  Emma  stayed  a  month  with 
us,  and  has  gone  back  (in  tolerable  health)  to  her  long  home, 
for  slie  comes  not  again  for  a  twelvemonth.  I  amused  Mrs. 
Williams  with  an  occurrence  on  our  road  to  Enfield.*  We 
traveled  with  one  of  those  troublesome  fellow-passengers  in 
a  stage-coach,  that  is  called  a  well-informed  man.  For 
twenty  miles,  we  discoursed  about  the  properties  of  steam, 
probabilities  of  carriages  by  ditto,  till  all  my  science,  and 
more  than  all  was  exhausted,  and  I  was  thinking  of  escaping 
my  torment  by  getting  up  on  the  outside,  when,  getting  into 
Bishops  Stortford,  my  gentleman,  spying  some  farming  land, 
put  an  unlucky  question  to  me  :  "  What  sort  of  a  crop  of  turnips 
I  thought  we  should  have  this  year  ?"  Emma's  eyes  turned  to 
me,  to  know  what  in  the  world  I  could  have  to  say  ;  and  she 
burst  out  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter,  maugre  her  pale,  serious 
cheeks,  when,  with  the  greatest  gravity,  I  replied,  that  "it  de- 
pended, I  believed,  upon  boiled  legs  of  mutton."  This  clenched 
our  conversation,  and  my  gentleman,  with  a  face  half  wise, 
half  in  scorn,  troubled  us  with  no  more  conversation,  scientific 
or  philosophical,  for  the  remainder  of  the  journey.    S was 

*  This  little  anecdote  was  told  by  Lamb  in  a  letter  previously  pub- 
lished, but  not  quite  so  richly  ns  here. 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  175 

here  yesterday,  and  as  learned  to  the  full  as  my  fellow-trav- 
eler. What  a  pity  that  he  will  spoil  a  wit,  and  a  most  pleas- 
ant fellow   (as  he  is)  by  wisdom.     N.  Y *  is  as  good, 

and  as  old  as  ever.  Wc  had  a  dispute  about  the  word 
"  heir,"  which  I  contended  was  pronounced  like  "air  ;"  he 
said  that  it  might  be  in  common  parlance  ;  or  that  we  might 
so  use  it,  speaking  of  the  "  lleir-at-law,"  a  comedy;  but 
that  in  the  law  courts  it  was  necessary  to  give  it  a  full  aspi- 
ration, and  to  say  hayer  ;  he  thought  it  might  even  vitiate  a 
cause,  if  a  counsel  pronounced  it  otherwise.  In  conclusion, 
he  would  consult  Serjeant  Wilde,  who  gave  it  against  him. 
Sometimes  he  falleth  into  the  water ;  sometimes  into  the  fire. 
He  came  down  here,  and  insisted  on  reading  Virgil's  "  Eneid" 
all  through  with  me,  (which  he  did)  because  a  counsel  must 
know  Latin.  Another  time  he  read  out  all  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John,  because  quotations  are  very  emphatic  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice. A  third  time  he  would  carve  a  fowl,  which  he  did  very 
ill-favoredly,  because  "  we  did  not  know  how  indispensable 
it  was  for  a  barrister  to  do  all  those  sort  of  things  well  ? 
Those  little  things  were  of  more  consequence  than  we  sup- 
posed." So  he  goes  on  harassing  about  the  way  to  prosperi- 
ty, and  losing  it  with  a  long  head,  but  somewhat  a  wrong 
one — harum-scarum.  Why  does  not  his  guardian  angel 
look  to  him  ?  He  deserves  one  :  may  bo,  he  has  tii'cd  him 
out. 

I  am  with  this  long  scrawl,  but  I  thought  in  your  exile, 
you  might  like  a  letter.  Commend  me  to  all  the  wondei's  in 
Derbyshire,  and  tell  the  devil  I  humbly  kiss  my  hand  to  him. 

Yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb. 

The  esteem  which  Lamb  had  always  cherished  for  Mr. 
Rogers,  was  quickened  into  a  livelier  feeling  by  the  generous 
interest  which  the  poet  took  in  the  success  of  Mr.  Moxon, 
who  was  starting  as  a  publisher.  The  following  little  note 
shows  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  this  time  towards  two  dis- 
tinguished persons. 

*    A  very  old  and   dear  friend  of  Lamb  who  had  just  been  called  to 
the  bar. 


176  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB- 


TO    MR.    MOXON. 

Enfield,  Tuesday. 

Dear  M., 

I  dined  with  your  and  my  Rogers,  at  Mr.  Gary's 
yesterday.  Gary  consulted  him  on  the  proper  bookseller  to 
offer  a  lady's  MS.  novel  to.  I  said  I  would  write  to  ymi. 
But  I  wish  you  would  call  on  the  translator  of  Dante,  at  the 
British  Museum,  and  talk  with  him.  He  is  the  pleasantest 
of  clergymen.  I  told  him  of  all  Rogers's  handsome  behavior 
to  you,  and  you  are  ali"eady  no  stranger.  Go !  I  made 
Rogers  laugh  about  your  Nightingale  Sonnet,  not  having 
heard  one.  'Tis  a  good  Sonnet,  notwithstanding.  You  shall 
have  the  books  shortly.  C.  L. 

Mr.  Moxon,  having  become  the  publisher  of  "  The  En- 
glishman's  Magazine,"  obtained  Lamb's  aid,  as  a  contributor 
of  miscellaneous  articles,  which  were  arranged  to  appear  un- 
der the  comprehensive  title  of  "  Peter's  Net."  The  follow- 
ing accompanied  his  first  contribution,  in  which  some  remi- 
niscences of  the  Royal  Academy  were  enshrined. 


to  mr.  moxoj^. 
Dear  M., 

The  R.  A.  here  memorized  was  George  Dawe, 
whom  I  knew  well,  and  heard  many  anecdotes  of,  from  Dan- 
iels and  Westall,  at  H.  Rogers's  ;  to  each  of  them  it  will  be 
well  to  send  a  magazine  in  my  name.  It  will  fly  like  wild- 
fire among  the  Royal  Academicians  and  artists.  Could  you 
get  hold  of  Proctor  ? — his  chambers  are  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  at 
Montague's  ;  or  of  Janus  Weathercock  ? — both  of  their  prose 
is  capital.  Don't  encourage  poetry.  The  "  Peter's  Net" 
does  not  intend  funny  things  only.  All  is  fish.  And  leave 
out  the  sickening  "  Elia"  at  the  end.  Then  it  may  comprise 
letters  and  characters,  addressed  to  Peter ;  but  a  signature 
forces  it  to  be  all  characteristic  of  the  one  man,  Elia,  or  the 
one  man,  Peter,  which  cramped  me  formerly.  I  have  agreed 
not  for  my  sister  to  know  the  subjects  I  choose,  till  the  maga- 
zine comes  out ;  so  beware  of  speaking  of  'em,  or  writing 
about  'em,  save  generally.     Be  particular  about  this  warn- 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  177 

ing.  Can't  you  drop  in  some  afternoon,  and  take  a  bed  ? 
The  Athenaeum  has  been  hoaxed  with  some  exquisite  poetry, 
that  was,  two  or  three  months  ago,  in  "  Hone's  Book."  I 
like  your  first  number  c?ipitally.  But  is  it  not  small  ?  Come 
and  see  us,  week-day  if  possible. 

Send,  or  bring  me  Hone's  number  for  August.  The  an- 
ecdotes of  E.  and  of  G.  D.  are  substantially  true  ;  what  does 
Elia  (or  Peter)  care  for  dates  ? 

The  poem  I  mean,  is  in  "  Hone's  Book,"  as  far  back  as 
April.  1  do  not  know  who  wrote  it ;  but  'tis  a  poem  I  envy 
— that  and  Montgomery's  "  Last  Man  ;"  I  envy  the  writers, 
because  I  feel  I  could  have  done  something  like  them. 

C.  L. 

The  following  contains  Lamb's  characteristic  acknowl- 
edgment of  a  payment  on  account  of  these  contributions. 


to  mr.  moxon. 
Dear  M., 

Your  letter's  contents  pleased  me.  I  am  only  afraid 
of  taxing  you.  Yet  I  want  a  stimulus,  or  I  think  1  should 
drag  sadly.  I  shall  keep  the  monies  in  trust,  till  I  see  you 
fairly  over  the  next  1st  January.  Then  I  shall  look  upon 
'em  as  earned.  No  part  of  your  letter  gave  me  more  pleas- 
ure (no,  not  the  107.,  tho'  you  may  grin)  than  that  you  will 
revisit  old  Enfield,  which  I  hope  will  be  always  a  pleasant 
idea  to  you. 

Yours,  very  faithfully, 

C.  L. 

The  magazine,  although  enriched  with  Lamb's  articles, 
and  some  others  of  great  merit,  did  not  meet  with  a  success 
so  rapid  as  to  requite  the  proprietor  for  the  labor  and  anxiety 
of  its  production.  The  following  is  Lamb's  letter,  in  reply 
to  one  announcing  a  determination  to  discontinue  its  publica- 
tion : — 

TO  MR.  MOXON. 

To  address  an  abdicated  monarch  is  a  nice  point  of  breed- 
ing.    To  give  him  his  lost  titles  is  to  mock  him  ;  to  withhold 


178  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

them  is  to  wound  him.  But  his  minister,  who  falls  with  him, 
may  be  gracefully  sympathetic.  I  do  honestly  feel  for  your 
diminution  of  honors,  and  regret  even  the  pleasing  cares 
which  are  part  and  parcel  of  greatness.  Your  magnanimous 
submission,  and  the  cheerful  tone  of  your  renunciation  in  a 
letter,  (which,  without  flattery,  would  have  made  an  "Arti- 
cle," and  which,  rarely  as  I  keep  letters,  shall  be  preserved), 
comfort  me  a  little.  Will  it  please  or  plague  you,  to  say 
that  when  your  parcel  came,  I  cursed  it,  for  my  pen  was 
warming  in  my  hand  at  a  ludicrous  description  of  a  Land- 
scape of  an  R.  A.,  which  I  calculated  upon  sending  you  to- 
morrow, the  last  day  you  gave  me  ?  Now  any  one  calling 
in,  or  a  letter  coming,  puts  an  end  to  my  writing  for  the  day. 
Little  did  I  think  that  the  mandate  had  gone  out,  so  destruc- 
tive to  my  occupation,  so  relieving  to  the  apprehensions  of  the 
whole  body  of  R.  A's ;  so  you  see  I  had  not  quitted  the  ship 
while  a  plank  was  remaining. 

To  drop  metaphors,  I  am  sure  you  have  done  wisely. 
The  very  spirit  of  your  epistle  speaks  that  you  have  a  weight 
off  your  mind.     I  have  one  on  mine  :  the  cash  in  hand,  which, 

as less  truly  says,  burns  in  my  pocket.     I  feel  queer  at 

returning  it,  (who  does  not  ?)  you  feel  awkward  at  retaking 
it,  (who  ought  not  ?) — is  there  no  middle  way  of  adjusting 
this  fine  embarrassment  ?  I  think  I  have  hit  upon  a  mediurfi 
to  skin  the  sore  place  over,  if  not  quite  to  heal  it.  You  hinted 
that  there  might  be  something  under  101. ,  by  and  by  accru- 
ing to  me — DevlVs  money;*  (you  are  sanguine;  say  11. 
10s.  ;)  that  I  entirely  renounce,  and  abjure  all  future  interest 
in  it :  I  insist  upon  it,  and,  "  by  him  1  will  not  name,"  1 
won't  touch  a  penny  of  it.  That  will  split  your  loss,  one 
half,  and  leave  me  conscientious  possessor  of  what  I  hold. 
Less  than  your  assent  to  this,  no  proposal  will  I  accept  of. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  ,  whose  name  you  have  left  illegible 

(is  it  Seagull  ?)  never  sent  me  any  book  on  Christ's  Hospital, 
by  which  I  could  dream  that  1  was  indebted  to  him  for  a 
dedication.  Did  G.  D.  send  his  penny  tract  to  me,  to  con- 
vert me  to  Unitarianism  1  Dear,  blundering  soul  !  why  I 
am  as  old  a  Unitarian  as  himself.  Or  did  he  think  his  cheap 
publication   would    bring  over  the  Methodists  over  the  way 

*  Alluding  to  a  little  extravagance  of  Lamb's — scarcely  worth  recol- 
lecting— in  emulation  of  the  "  Devil's  Walk"  of  Southey  and  Co. 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  179 

here  ?*  However,  I'll  give  it  to  tlio  pew-opener,  in  whom  I 
have  a  little  interest,  to  hand  over  to  the  clerk,  whose  wife 
she  sometimes  drinks  tea  with,  for  him  to  lay  before  the  dea- 
con, who  exchanges  the  civility  of  the  hat  with  him,  to  trans- 
mit to  the  minister,  who  shakes  hands  with  him  out  of  chapel, 
and  he,  in  all  odds,  will  light  his  pipe  with  it. 

I  wish  very  much  to  see  you.  1  leave  it  to  you  to  come 
how  you  will  ;  we  shall  be  very  glad  (we  need  not  repeat) 
to  see  your  sister,  or  sisters,  witli  you  ;  but  for  you,  indi- 
vidually, I  will  just  hint  that  a  dropping  in  to  tea,  unlooked 
for,  about  five,  stopping  bread-and-cheese  and  gin-and-wa- 
ter,  is  worth  a  thousand  Sundays.  I  am  naturally  mis- 
erable on  a  Sunday  ;  but  a  week-day  evening  and  sup- 
per is  like  old  times.  Set  out  7ioio,  and  give  no  time  to 
deliberation. 

P.  S. — The  second  volume  of  "  Elia "  is  delightful 
(ly  bound,  I  mean,)  and  quite  cheap.  Why,  man,  'tis  a 
unique. 

If  I  write  much  more  I  shall  e.xpand  into  an  article, 
which  I  cannot  afford  to  let  you  have  so  cheap.  By  the  by, 
to  show  the  perverseness  of  human  will,  while  I  thought  I 
must  furnish  one  of  those  accursed  things  monthly,  it  seemed 
a  labor  above  Hercules'  "  Twelve  "  in  a  year,  which  were 
evidently  monthly  contributions.  Now  I  am  emancipated,  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  a  thousand  Essays  swelling  within  me. 
False  feelings  both  ! 

Your  ex-Lampoonist,  or  Lamb-punnist,  from  Enfield,  Oc- 
tober 24,  or  "  last  day  but  one  for  receiving  articles  that  can 
be  inserted." 

The  following  was  addressed,  soon  after. 


to  mr  moxon. 
Dear  Moxon, 

The  snows  are  ankle-deep,  slush,  and  mire,  that 
'tis  hard  to  get  to  the  post-office,  and  cruel  to  send  the  maid 
out.  'Tis  a  slough  of  despair,  or  I  should  sooner  have  thanked 
you  for  your  offer  of  the  "  Life,"  which  we  shall  very  much 

*  Referring  to  a  chapel  opposite  his  lodging  at  Enfield. 


180  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB, 

like  to  have,  and  will  return  duly.  I  do  not  know  when  I 
shall  be  in  town,  but  in  a  week  or  two,  at  farthest,  when  I  will 
come  as  far  as  you,  if  I  can.  We  are  moped  to  death  with 
confinement  within  doors.  I  send  you  a  curiosity  of  G. 
Dyer's  tender  conscience.  Between  thirty  and  forty  years 
since,  G.  published  the  "  Poet's  Fate,"  in  which  were  two 
very  harmless  lines  about  Mr.  Rogers,  but  Mr.  R.  not  quite 
approving  of  them,  they  were  left  out  in  a  subsequent  edition, 
1801.  But  G.  has  been  worrying  about  them  ever  since ; 
if  I  have  heard  once,  I  have  heard  him  a  hundred  times,  ex- 
press a  remorse  proportioned  to  a  consciousness  of  having 
been  guilty  of  an  atrocious  libel.  As  the  devil  would  have 
it,  a  man  they  call  Barker,  in  his  "  Parriana,"  has  quoted 
the  identical  two  lines,  as  they  stood  in  some  obscure  edition 
anterior  to  1801,  and  the  withers  of  poor  G.  are  again  wrung. 
His  letter  is  a  gem  ;  with  his  poor  blind  eyes  it  has  been 
labored  out  at  six  sittings.  The  history  of  the  couplet  is  in 
page  3  of  this  irregular  production,  in  which  every  variety 
of  shape  and  size  that  letters  can  be  twisted  into  is  to  be 
found.  Do  show  his  part  of  it  to  Mr.  R.  some  day.  If  he 
has  bowels,  they  must  melt  at  the  contrition  so  queerly  char- 
actered of  a  contrite  sinner.  G.  was  born,  I  verily  think, 
without  original  sin,  but  chooses  to  have  a  conscience,  as 
every  Christian  gentleman  should  have.  His  dear  face  is 
insusceptible  of  the  twist  they  call  a  sneer,  yet  he  is  appre- 
hensive of  being  suspected  of  that  ugly  appearance.  When 
he  makes  a  compliment  he  thinks  he  has  given  an  affront — 
a  name  is  personality.  But  show  (no  hurry)  this  unique 
recantation  to  Mr.  R.  ;  'tis  like  a  dirty  pocket-handkerchief 
mucked  with  tears  of  some  indigent  Magdalen.  There  is 
the  impress  of  sincerity  in  every  pot-hook  and  hanger ;  and 
then  the  gilt  frame  to  such  a  pauper  picture  ! — it  should  go 
into  the  Museum  ! 

Come  when  the  weather  will  possibly  let  you  ;  I  want  to 
see  the  Wordsworths,  but  I  do  not  much  like  to  be  all  night 
away.  It  is  dull  enough  to  bo  here  together,  but  it  is  duller 
to  leave  Mary  ;  in  short,  it  is  painful,  and  in  a  flying  visit  I 
should  hardly  catch  them.  I  have  no  beds  for  them  if  they 
come  down,  and  but  a  sort  of  a  house  to  receive  them  in ; 
yet  I  shall  regret  their  departure  unseen  ;  I  feel  cramped  and 
straitened  every  way.      Where  are  they  ? 


LETTER    TO    TALFOURD.  181 


We  have  heard  from  Emma  Ijut  once,  and  tliat  a  monih 
ago,  and  are  very  anxious  ibr  another  letter. 

You  say  we  have  forgot  your  powers  of  being  serviceable 
to  us.  That  we  never  shall ;  1  do  not  know  what  I  should 
do  without  you  when  I  want  a  little  commission.  Now  then  : 
there  are  left  at  Miss  Buffbn's,  the  "  Tales  of  the  Castle," 
and  certain  volumes  of  the  "  Retrospective  Review."  The 
first  should  bo  conveyed  to  Novcllo's,  and  the  Reviews  should 
be  taken  to  Talfourd's  office,  ground-floor,  east-side.  Elm 
Court,  Middle  Temple,  to  whom  I  should  have  written,  but 
my  spirits  are  wretched;  it  is  quite  an  effort  to  write  this. 
So  with  the  "  Life,"  I  have  cut  you  out  three  pieces  of  ser- 
vice. What  can  I  do  for  you  here,  but  hope  to  see  you  very 
soon,  and  think  of  you  with  most  kindness  ?  I  fear  to-mor- 
row, between  rains  and  snows,  it  would  be  impossible  to  ex- 
pect you  ;  but  do  not  let  a  practicable  Sunday  pass.  We  are 
always  at  home. 

Mary  joins  in  remembrances  to  your  sister,  whom  we 
hope  to  see  in  any  fineish  weather,  when  she'll  venture. 

Remember  us  to  Allsop,  and  all  the  dead  people  •  to 
whom,  and  to  London,  we  seem  dead. 

In  February,  1833,  the  following  letter  was  addressed  by 
Lamb,  to  the  Editor,  on  his  being  made  Serjeant : — 


to  mr.  serjeant  talfourd. 

My  Dear  T., 

Now  cannot  I  call  him  Serjeant  ?  what  is  there  in 
a  coif?  Those  canvas  sleeves,  protective  from  ink,*  when 
he  was  a  law-chit — a  ChittyVwg,  (let  the  leathern  apron  be 
apocryphal)  do  more  'specially  plead  to  the  Jury  Court  of 
old  memory.  The  costume  (will  he  agnize  it?)  was  as 
of  a  desk-fellow,  or  Socius  Plutei.  Methought  I  spied  a 
brother ! 

That  familiarity  is  extinct  for  ever.     Curse  me  if  1  can 

*  Mr.  Lamb'always  insisted  that  the  costume  referred  to^was  worn 
when  he  first  gladdened  his  young  friend  by  a  call  at  Mr.  Chitty's  cham- 
bers.    I  am  afraid  it  is  all  apocryphal. 


182  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

call  him  Mr.  Serjeant — except,  mark  me,  in  company.  Hon- 
or where  honor  is  due  ;  but  should  he  ever  visit  us,  (do  you 
think  he  ever  will,  Mary  ?)  what  a  distinction  should  1  keep 
up  between  liim  and  our  less  fortunate  friend,  H.  C.  R. ! 
Decent  respect  shall  always  be  the  Crabb's — but,  somehow, 
short  of  reverence. 

Well,  of  my  old  friends,  I  have  lived  to  see  two  knight- 
ed, one  made  a  judge,  another  in  a  fair  way  to  it.  Why  am 
I  restive  ?  why  stands  my  sun  upon  Gibeah  ? 

Variously,  my  dear  Mrs.  Talfourd,  [I  can  be  more  fami- 
liar with  her  !]  Mrs.  Serjeant  Talfourd, — my  sister  prompts 
me — (these  ladies  stand  upon  ceremonies) — has  the  congra- 
tulable  news  affected  the  members  of  our  small  community. 
Mary  comprehended  it  at  once,  and  entered  into  it  heartily. 

Mrs.  W was,  as  usual,  perverse  ;   wouldn't,  or  couldn't, 

understand  it.  A  Serjeant  ?  She  thought  Mr.  T.  was  in 
the  law.     Didn't  know  that  he  ever  'listed. 

Emma  alone  truly  sympathized.  She  had  a  silk  gown 
come  home  that  very  day,  and  has  precedence  before  her 
learned  sisters  accordingly. 

We  are  going  to  drink  the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ser- 
jeant, with  all  the  young  serjeantry — and  that  is  all  that  I 
can  see  that  I  shall  get  by  the  promotion. 

Valete,  et  mementote  amici  quondam  verstri  humillimi, 

C.  L. 

In  the  Spring  of  183.3,  Lamb  made  his  last  removal  from 
Enfield  to  Edmonton.  He  was  about  to  lose  the  society  of 
Miss  Isola,  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  and  determined  to  live 
altogether  with  his  sister,  whether  in  her  sanity  or  her  mad- 
ness.    This  change  was  announced  in  the  following  letter. 


TO   MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

End  of  May  nearly. 
Dear  Wordsworth, 

Your  letter,  save  in  wliat  respects  your  dear  sister's 
health,  cheered  me  in  my  new  solitude.  Mary  is  ill  again. 
Her  illnesses  encroach  yearly.  The  last  was  three  months, 
followed  by  two  of  depression  most  dreadful.  I  look  back 
upon  her  earlier  attacks  with  longing.     Nice  little  durations 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  183 

of  six  weeks  or  so,  followed  by  complete  restoration, — shock- 
ing as  they  were  to  me  then.  In  short,  half  her  life  she  is 
dead  to  me,  and  the  other  half  is  made  anxious  with  fears 
and  lookings  forward  to  the  next  shock.  With  such  pros- 
pects, it  seemed  to  be  necessary  that  she  should  no  longer 
live  with  me,  and  be  flustered  with  continual  removals;  so  I 
am  come  to  live  witii  her,  at  a  Mr.  Walden's,  and  his  wife, 
who  take  in  patients,  and  have  arranged  to  lodge  and  board 
us  only.  They  have  had  the  care  of  her  before.  Sunt 
lachrymrc  rerum  !  and  you  and  I  must  bear  it. 

To  lay  a  little  more  load  on  it,  a  circumstance  has  hap- 
pened, cujus  pars  magna  fui,  and  which,  at  another  crisis,  I 
should  have  more  rejoiced  in.  1  am  about  to  lose  my  old 
and  only  walk-companion,  whose  mirthful  spirits  were  the 
"  youth  of  our  house,"  Emma  Isola.  I  have  been  here  now 
for  a  little  while,  but  she  is  too  nervous,,  properly  to  be  under 
such  a  roof,  so  she  will  make  short  visits, — be  no  more  an 
inmate.  With  my  perfect  approval,  and  more  than  concur- 
rence, she  is  to  be  wedded  to  Moxon,  at  the  end  of  August — 
so  "  perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers" — how  is  it  ? 

Now  to  the  brighter  side.  I  am  emancipated  from  Enfield. 
I  am  with  attentive  people,  and  younger.  I  am  three  or  four 
miles  nearer  the  great  city  ;  coaches  half-price  less,  and 
going  always,  of  which  1  will  avail  myself.  I  have  few 
friends  left  there,  one  or  two  though,  most  beloved.  But  Lon- 
don streets  and  faces  cheer  me  inexpressibly,  though  of  the 
latter,  there  should  be  not  a  known  one  remaining. 

Thank  you  for  your  cordial  reception  of  "  Elia."  Inter 
nos,  the  "  Ariadne"  is  not  a  darling  with  me  ;  several  incon- 
gruous things  are  in  it,  but  in  the  composition  it  served  me 
as  illustration. 

I  want  you  in  the  "  Popular  Fallacies"*  to  like  the 
"  Home  that  is  no  home,"  and  the  "  Rising  with  the  lark." 

I  am  feeble,  but  cheerful  in  this  my  genial  hot  weather. 
Walked  sixteen  miles  yesterday.  I  can't  read  much  in  sum- 
mer time. 

With    my    kindest    love    to    all,    and    prayers   for  dear 


Dorothy, 


I  remain,  most  affectionately,  yours, 

C.  Lamb. 


*  A  series  of  articles  contributed,  under  this  title,  by  Lamb,  to  the 
'•  New  Monthly  Magazine." 


184  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

At  Mr.  Walden's,  Church  Street,  Edmonton,  Middlesex. 

Moxon  has  introduced  Emma  to  Rogers,  and  he  smiles 
upon  the  project.  I  have  given  E.  my  Milton,  (will  you 
pardon  me  ?*)  in  part  of  a  portion.  It  hangs  famously  in  his 
Murray-like  shop. 

On  the  approach  of  the  wedding-day,  fixed  for  30th  July, 
Lamb  turned  to  the  account  of  a  half-tearful  merriment,  the 
gift  of  a  watch  to  the  young  lady  whom  he  was  about  to 
lose. 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

For  God's  sake  give  Emma  no  more  watches ;  one  has 
turned  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and  insulting.  She  said 
something  very  unpleasant  to  our  old  clock  in  the  passage, 
as  if  he  did  not  keep  time,  and  yet  he  had  made  her  no  ap- 
pointment. She  takes  it  out  every  instant  to  look  at  the  mo- 
ment hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the  fields,  because  there 
the  bird-boys  ask  you,  "  Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  us  what's 
o'clock  ?"  and  she  answers  them  punctually.  She  loses  all 
her  time  looking  to  see  "  what  the  time  is."  I  overheard  her 
whispering,  "  Just  so  many  hours,  minutes,  &c.,  to  Tuesday  ; 
I  think  St.  Geoi-ge's  goes  too  slow."  This  little  present  of 
time  ! — why, — 'lis  Eternity  to  her  ! 

What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread  watch  1 

She  has  spoiled  some  of  the  movements.  Between  our- 
selves, she  has  kissed  away  "  half  past  twelve,"  which  I  sup- 
pose to  be  the  canonical  hour  in  Hanover  Square. 

Well,  if  "  love  me,  love  my  watch"  answers,  she  will 
keep  time  to  you. 

It  goes  right  by  the  Horse  Guards. 

Dearest  M., 

Never  mind  oppositej"  nonsense.    She  does  not  love 
you  for  the  watch,   but  the  Avatch  for  you.     I  will  be  at  the 

*  It  had  been  proposed  by  Lainh  tliat  Mr.  W.  sliould  be  the  possessor 
of  the  portrait  if  he  outlived  his  friend,  and  that  afterwards  it  was  to  be 
bequeathed  to  Christ's  College,  Cambridge. 

t  Written  on  the  opposite  page  lo  that  in  which  the  previous  affec- 
tionate banter  appears. 


LETTER  TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  WOXON.  185 

wedding,  and  keep  the  30th  July,  as  long  as  my  poor  monihs 
last  me,  a  festival,  gloriously. 

Yours,  ever, 

Elia. 

We  have  not  heard  from  Cambridge.  I  will  write  the 
moment  we  do. 

Edmonton,  24th  July,  twenty  minutes  past  three  by 
Emma's  watch. 

Miss  Lamb  was  in  a  state  of  mental  estrangement  up  to 
the  day  of  the  wedding  ;  but  then  in  the  constant  companion- 
ship of  her  brother  at  Edmonton.  The  following  cluster  of 
little  letters  to  the  new-married  pair — the  first  from  Charles, 
introducing  one  from  Mary — shows  the  happy  effect  of  the 
news  on  her  mental  health. 


to  mr.  and  mrs.  moxon. 

Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon, 

Time  very  short.  I  wrote  to  Miss  Fryer,  and  had 
the  sweetest  letter  about  you,  Emma,  that  ever  friendship 
dictated.  "I  am  full  of  good  wishes,  I  am  crying  with  good 
wishes,"  she  says ;   but  you  shall  see  it. 

Dear  Moxon, 

I  take  your  writing  most  kindly,  and  shall  most 
kindly  your  writing  from  Paris. 

I  want  to  crowd  another  letter  to  Miss  Fryer  into  the  little 
time  after  dinner,  befoi'e  post  time.  So  with  twenty  thousand 
congratulations,  Yours, 

C.  L. 

P.  S. — I  am  calm,  sober,  happy.  Turn  over  for  the  reason. 
I  got  home  from  Dover  Street,  by  Evans,  half  as  sober  as  a 
judge.  I  am  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  as  1  hopo  you  will 
now. 

The  turn  of  the  leaf  presented  the  following  from  Miss 
Lamb : — 


186  final  memorials  of  charles  lamb. 

My  dear  Emma  and  Edward  Moxon, 

Accept  my  sincere  congratulations,  and  imagine 
more  good  wishes  than  my  weak  nerves  will  let  me  put  into 
good  set  words.  The  dreary  blank  of  unanswered  questions 
which  I  ventured  to  <ask  in  vain,  was  cleared  up  on  the  wed- 
ding day  by  Mrs.  W.*  taking  a  glass  of  wine,  and,  with  a 
total  change  of  countenance,  begging  leave  to  drink  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moxon's  good  health.  It  restored  me  from  that  mo- 
ment, as  if  by  an  electrical  shock,  to  the  entire  possession  of 
my  senses.  I  never  felt  so  calm  and  quiet  after  a  similar 
illness  as  I  do  now.  I  feel  as  if  all  tears  were  wiped  from 
my  eyes,  and  all  care  from  my  heart. 

Mary  Lamb. 

At  the  foot  of  this  letter  is  the  following  by  Charles  : — 

Wednesday . 

Dears,  again, 

Your  letter  interrupted  a  seventh  game  at  piquet 
which  u^e  were  having,  after  walking  to  Wright's  and  pur- 
chasing shoes.  We  pass  our  time  in  cards,  walks,  and  read- 
ing.    We  attack  Tasso  soon. 

C.  L. 

Never  was  such  a  calm,  or  such  a  recovery.     'Tis  her 
own  words,  undictated. 


Miss  Lamb  did  not  escape  all  the  cares  of  housekeeping 
by  the  new  arrangement ;  the  following  little  note  shows  the 
grotesque  uses  to  which  Lamb  turned  the  smaller  household 
anxieties  : — 


TO  MR.   moxon. 
Dear  M., 

Mary  and  I  are  very  poorly.  We  have  had  a  sick 
child,  who,  sleeping  or  not  sleeping,  next  me,  with  a  paste- 
board partition  between,  killed  my  sleep.  The  little  bastard 
is  gone.     My  bedfellows  are  cough  and  cramp ;  we  sleep 

*  The  wife  of  the  landlord  of  the  house  at  Edmonton. 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  187 


three  in  a  bed.    Domestic  arrangements  (baker,  butcher,  and 

all)  devolve  on  Mary.     Don't  come  yet  to  this  liovise  of  pest 
and  age  !    We  propose,  wiien  you  and  E.  agree  for  the  time, 

to  come  up  and  meet  you  at  tlic  B 's,  say  a  week  hence, 

but  do  you  make  the  appointment. 

Mind,  our  spirits  are  good,  and  we  are  happy  in  your 
hnppinessf's. 

C.  L. 

Our  old  and  ever  new  loves  to  dear  Emma. 

The  following  is  Lamb's  reply  to  a  welcome  communica- 
tion of  Sonnets,  addressed  by  the  bridegroom  to  the  fair  ob- 
ject of  Lamb's  regard — beautiful  in  themselves — and  endear- 
ed to  Lamb  by  honored  memories  and  generous  hopes : — 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

Mary  is  of  opinion  with  me,  that  two  of  these  Sonnets  are 
of  a  higher  grade  than  any  poetry  you  have  done  yet.  The 
one  to  Emma  is  so  pretty  !  1  have  only  allowed  myself  to 
transpose  a  word  in  the  third  line.  Sncred  shall  it  be  from 
any  intermeddling  of  mine.  But  wc  jointly  beg  that  you 
will  make  four  lines  in  the  room  of  the  four  last.  Read 
"  Darby  and  Joan,"  in  Mrs.  Moxon's  first  album.  There 
you'll  see  how  beautiful  in  age  the  looking  back  to  youthful 
years  in  an  old  couple  is.  But  it  is  a  violence  to  the  feelings 
to  anticipate  that  timu  in  youth.  I  hope  you  and  Emma  will 
have  many  a  quarrel,  and  many  a  make-up  (and  she  is 
beautiful  in  reconciliation  !)  before  the  dark  days  shall  come, 
in  which  ye  shall  say  "  there  is  small  comfort  in  them."  You 
have  begun  a  sort  of  character  of  Emma  in  them,  very 
sweetly  ;  carry  it  on,  if  you  can,  through  the  last  lines. 

I  love  the  sonnet  to  my  heart,  and  you  shall  finish  it,  and 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  furnish  a  line  towards  it.  So  much  for 
that.     The  next  best  is  the  Ocean  : — 

"  Ye  gallant  winds,  if  e'er  your  lusty  cheeks 
Blew  longing  lover  to  his  mistress'  side, 
O,  puff  your  loudest,  spread  the  canvas  wide," 

is  spirited.    The  last  line  I  altered,  and  have  re-altered  it  as  it 
stood.     It  is  closer.     These  two  are  your  best.     But  take  a 


188  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

good  deal  of  time  in  finishing  the  first.  How  proud  should 
Emma  be  of  her  poets  ! 

Perhaps  "  O  Ocean"  (though  I  like  it)  is  too  much  of  the 
open  vowels,  whicli  Pope  objects  to.  "  Great  Ocean  !"  is 
obvious.  To  save  sad  thoughts  I  think  is  better  (though  not 
good)  than  for  tlie  mind  to  save  herself.  But  'tis  a  noble 
Sonnet.     "  St.  Cloud"  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with. 

If  I  return  the  Sonnets,  think  it  no  disrespect,  for  I  look 
for  a  printed  copy.  You  have  done  better  than  ever.  And 
now  for  a  reason  1  did  not  notice  them  earlier.  On  Wednes- 
day they  came,  and  on  Wednesday  I  was  a-gadding.  Mary 
gave  me  a  holiday,  and  I  set  off  to  Snow  Hill.  From  Snow 
Hill  I  deliberately  was  marching  down,  with  noble  Holborn 
before  me,  framing  in  mental  agitation  a  map  of  the  dear 
London  in  prospect,  thinking  to  traverse  Wardour  Street,  &c., 
when,  diabolically,  I  was  interrupted  by  a  too  hospitable 
friend,  and  prevailed  on  to  spend  the  day  at  his  friendly 
house,  where  was  an  album,  and  (O,  march  of  intellect !) 
plenty  of  literary  conversation,  and  more  acquaintance  with 
the  state  of  modern  poetry  than  I  could  keep  up  with.  I  was 
positively  distanced.  Knowles's  play,  whicli,  epilogued  by 
me,  lay  on  the  Piano,  alone  made  me  hold  up  my  head. 
When  I  came  home,  I  read  your  letter,  and  glimpsed  at  your 
beautiful  sonnet, 

"  Fair  art  thou  as  the  morning,  my  young  bride," 

and  dwelt  upon  it  in  a  confused  brain,  but  determined  not  to 
open  them  till  next  day,  being  in  a  state  not  to  be  told  of 
at  Chatteris.  Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  Emma,  lest  the  daughters 
triumph  !  1  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  I  wish  you  could 
come  on  Tuesday  with  your  fair  bride.  Why  can't  you  ? 
Do.  We  are  thankful  to  your  sister  for  being  of  the  party. 
Come,  and  hring  a  sonnet  on  Mary's  birthday.  Love  to  the 
whole  Moxonry,  and  tell  E.  J  every  day  love  her  more,  and 
miss  her  less.  Tell  her  so  from  her  loving  uncle,  as  she  has 
let  me  call  hor.  I  bought  a  fine  embossed  card  yesterday, 
and  wrote  for  a  fair  lady's  album.  She  is  a  Miss  Brown, 
engaged  to  a  Mr.  White.  One  of  the  lines  was  (I  forgot  the 
rest — but  she  had  them  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice;  she  is 
going  out  to  India  with  her  husband)  : — 


LETTER    TO    GARY.  189 


"  May  your  fame. 
And  fortune,  Frances,  Whiten  with  your  name  !" 

Nol  bad  as  a  pun.     1  loill  expect  you  before  two  on  Tuesday. 
I  am  well  and  happy,  tell  E. 


Lamb's  latter  days  were  brightened  by  the  frequent — 
latterly  periodical — hospitality  of  the  admirable  translator  of 
Dante,  at  the  British  Museum.  The  following  was  addressed 
to  this  new  friend  lately  acquired,  but  who  became  an  old 
friend  at  once,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon  were  on  their 
wedding  tour : — 


to  rea\  h.  f.  gary. 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  packet  I  have  only  just  received,  owing,  I 
suppose,  to  the  absence  of  Moxon,  who  is  flaunting  it  about 
d  la  Parisienne,  with  his  new  bride  our  Emma,  much  to  his 
satisfaction,  and  not  a  little  to  our  dullness.  We  shall  be 
quite  well  by  the  lime  you  return  from  Worcestershire,  and 
most,  most  (observe  the  I'epetition)  glad  to  see  you  here,  or 
anywhere. 

I  will  take  my  time  with  D 's  act.      I  wish   poets 

would  write  a  little  plainer  ;  he   begins  some  of  his  words 
with  a  letter  which  is  unknown  to  the  typography. 

Yours,  most  truly, 

C.  Lajib. 

P.  S. — Pray  let  mo  know  when  you  return.  We  are  at 
Mr.  Walden's,  Church  Street,  Edmonton  ;  no  longer  at  En- 
field. You  will  be  amused  to  hear  that  my  sister  and  I  have, 
with  the  aid  of  Emma,  scrambled  through  the  "  Inferno,"  by 
the  blessed  furtherance  of  your  polar  star  translation.  I  think 
we  scarce  left  any  thing  unmadeout.  But  our  partner  has 
left  us,  and  we  have  not  yet  resumed.  Mary's  chief  pride 
in  it  was  that  she  should  some  day  brag  of  it  to  you.  Your 
"  Dante"  and  Sandys'  "  Ovid"  are  the  only  helpmates  of 
translations.     Neither  of  you  shirk  a  word. 

Fairfax's  "  Tasso"  is  no  translation  at  all.     It  is  better 


190  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

in  some  places,  but  it  merely  observes  the  number  of  stan- 
zas ;  as  for  images,  similes,  &c.,  he  finds  'em  himself,  and 
never  "  troubles  Peter  for  the  matter." 

In  haste,  dear  Gary, 

Yours  ever, 
C.  Lamb. 

Has  M.  sent  you  "  Elia,"  second  volume  ?  if  not,  he  shall. 
Sept.  9,1833. 

The  following  is  Lamb's  letter  of  acknowledgment  to  the 
author  of  the  "Pleasures  of  Memory,"  for  an  early  copy  of 
his  "  Illustrated  Poems,"  of  a  share  in  the  publication  of 
which,  Mr.  Moxon  was  "justly  vain."  The  artistical  allu- 
sions are  to  Stothard  ;  the  allusions  to  the  poet's  own  kind  i 
nesses  need  no  explanation  to  those  who  have  been  enabled 
by  circumstances,  which  now  and  then  transpire,  to  guess  at 
the  generous  course  of  his  life. 


TO    MR.    ROGERC 

Saturday. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

Your  book,  by  the  unremitting  punctuality  of  your 
publisher,  has  reached  me  thus  early.  I  have  not  opened  it, 
nor  will  till  to-morrow,  when  I  promise  myself  a  thorough 
reading  of  it.  The  "  Pleasures  of  Memory"  was  the  first 
school-present  I  made  to  Mrs.  Moxon  ;  it  has  those  nice  wood- 
cuts, and  I  believe  she  keeps  it  still.  Believe  me,  all  the 
kindness  you  have  shown  to  the  husband  of  that  excellent 
person  seems  done  unto  myself.  I  have  tried  my  hand  at  a 
sonnet,  in  the  Times.  But  the  turn  I  gave  it,  though  I  hoped 
it  would  not  displease  you,  I  thought  might  not  be  equally 
agreeable  to  your  artist.  I  met  that  dear  old  man  at  poor 
Henry's,  with  you,  and  again  at  Gary's,  and  it  was  sublime 
to  see  him  sit,  deaf,  and  enjoy  all  that  was  going  on  in  mirth 
with  the  company.  He  reposed  upon  the  many  graceful, 
many  fantastic  images  he  had  created ;  with  them  he  dined, 
and  took  wine.  I  have  ventured  at  an  antagonist  copy  of 
verses,  in  the  Athenteum,  to  him,  in  which  he  is  as  every 
thing,  and  you  as  nothing.     He  is  no  lawyer  who  cannot  take 


LETTER    TO    ROGERS.  191 


two  sides.  But  I  am  jealous  of  tlic  combination  of  the  sister 
arts.  Let  tlielii  sparkle  apart.  What  injury  (short  of  thea- 
tres, did  not  Boydell's  Shakspeare  Gallery  do  me  with  Shak- 
speare  ?  to  have  Opie's  Siiakspeare,  Northcote's  Shakspeare, 
wooden-headed  West's  Siiakspeare,  (though  he  did  the  best 
in  Lear),  deaf-headed  Reynolds's  Shakspeare,  instead  of  any 
and  every  body's  Shakspeare  ;  to  be  tied  down  to  an  authentic 
face  of  Juliet !  to  have  Imogen's  portrait !  to  confine  the  il- 
limitable !  I  like  you  and  Stothard,  (you  best)  but  "  out 
upon  this  half-faced  fellowship !"  Sir,  when  I  have  read  the 
book,  I  may  trouble  you,  tiirough  Moxon,  with  some  faint 
criticisms.  It  is  not  the  flatteringcst  compliment  in  a  letter 
to  an  author  to  say,  you  have  not  read  his  book  yet.  But 
the  devil  of  a  reader  he  must  be,  who  prances  through  it  in 
five  minutes,  and  no  longer  have  I  received  the  parcel.  It 
was  a  little  tantalizing  to  me  to  receive  a  letter  from  Landor, 
Gehlr  Landor,  from  Florence,  to  say  that  he  was  just  sitting 
down  to  read  my  "  Elia,"  just  received  ;  but  the  letter  was 
to  go  out  before  the  reading.  There  are  calamities  in  au- 
thorship, which  only  authors  know.  I  am  going  to  call  on 
Moxon,  on  Monday,  if  the  throngof  carriages  in  Dover  Street, 
on  the  morn  of  publication,  do  not  barricade  me  out. 

With  many  thanks  and  most  respectful  remembrances  to 
your  sister. 

Yours, 

C.  Lamb. 

Have  you  seen  Coleridge's  happy  exemplification  in  Eng- 
lish of  the  Ovidian  Elegiac  metre? 

In  the  Hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  current. 
In  the  Pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  down. 

My  sister  is  papering  up  the  book — careful  soul ! 


Lamb  and  his  sister  were  now,  for  the  last  year  of  their 
united  lives,  always  together.  What  his  feelings  were  in 
this  companionship,  when  his  beloved  associate  was  deprived 
of  reason,  will  be  seen  in  the  following  most  afTectilig  letter, 
to  an  old  schoolfellow  and  very  dear  friend  of  Mrs.  Moxon's 
— since  dead — who  took  an  earnest  interest  in  their  welfare. 


19'i  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


TO    MISS    FRYER. 

Feh.  U,  1834. 

Dear  Miss  Fryer, 

Your  letter  found  me  just  returned  from  keeping 
my  birthday  (pretty  innocent !)  at  Dover  Street.  I  see  them 
pretty  often.  I  have  since  had  letters  of  business  to  write, 
or  should  have  replied  earlier.  In  one  word,  be  less  uneasy 
about  me  ;  I  bear  my  privations  very  well  ;  I  am  not  in  the 
depths  of  desolation,  as  heretofore.  Your  admonitions  are 
not  lost  upon  me.  Your  kindness  has  sunk  into  my  heart. 
Have  faith  in  me !  It  is  no  new.  thing  for  me  to  be  left  to 
my  sister.  When  slie  is  not  violent,  her  rambling  chat  is 
better  to  me  than  the  sense  and  sanity  of  this  world.  Her 
heart  is  obscured,  not  buried ;  it  breaks  out  occasionally  ; 
and  one  can  discern  a  strong  mind  struggling  with  the  bil- 
lows that  have  gone  over  it.  I  could  be  nowhere  happier 
than  under  the  same  roof  with  her.  Her  memory  is  unnat- 
urally strong  ;  and  from  ages  past,  if  we  may  so  call  the  ear- 
liest records  of  our  poor  life,  she  fetches  thousands  of  names 
and  things  that  never  would  have  dawned  upon  me  again, 
and  thousands  from  the  ten  years  she  lived  before  me.  What 
took  place  from  early  girlhood  to  her  coming  of  age  princi- 
pally, live  again  (every  important  thing  and  evei'y  trifle)  in 
her  brain,  with  the  vividness  of  real  presence.  For  twelve 
hours  incessantly  she  will  pour  out  without  intermission,  all 
her  past  life,  forgetting  nothing,  pouring  out  name  after  name 
to  the  Waldens,  as  a  dream  ;  sense  and  nonsense  ;  truths  and 
errors  huddled  together ;  a  medley  between  inspiration  and 
possession.  What  things  we  are !  I  know  you  will  bear 
with  me  talking  of  these  things.  It  seems  to  ease  me,  for  I 
have  nobody  to  tell  these  things  to  now.  Emma,  I  see,  has 
got  a  harp,  and  is  learning  to  play.  She  has  framed  her 
three  Walton  pictures,  and  pretty  they  look.  That  is  a  book 
you  should  read ;  such  sweet  religion  in  it,  next  to  Wool- 
man's  ;  though  the  subject  be  baits,  and  hooks,  and  worms, 
and  fishes.  She  has  my  copy  at  present,  to  do  two  more 
from. 

Very,  very  tired  1  began  this  epistle,  having  been  episto- 
lizing  all  the  morning,  and  very  kindly  would  I  end  it,  could 
I  find  adequate  expressions  to  your  kindness.     We  did  set 


LETTER    TO    CARY.  19S 


our  minds  on  seeing  you  in  spring.  One  of  us  will  indubi- 
tably. But  I  am  not  skilled  in  almanac  learning,  to  know 
when  spring  precisely  begins  and  ends.  Pardon  my  blots ; 
1  am  glad  you  like  your  book.  I  wish  it  had  been  half  as 
worthy  of  your  acceptance  as  John  Woolman.  But  'tis  a 
good-natured  book. 


A  few  days  afterwards,  Lamb's  passionate  desire  to  serve 
a  most  deserving  friend  broke  out  in  the  following  earnest 
little  letter. 


TO    MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

Church  Street,  Edmonton, 

February  22. 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

I  write  from  a  house  of  mourning.  The  oldest  and 
best  friends  I  have  left  are  in  trouble.  A  branch  of  them 
(and  they  of  the  best  stock  of  God's  creatures,  I  believe)  is 

establishing  a  school  at  Carlisle  ;  her  name  is  L — —  M ; 

her  address  lo  Castle  Street,  Carlisle  ;  her  qualities  (and  her 
motives  for  this  exertion)  are  the  most  amiable,  most  upright. 
For  thirty  years  she  has  been  tried  by  me,  and,  on  her  be- 
havior, I  would  stake  my  soul.  O,  if  you  could  recommend 
her,  how  would  I  love  you — if  I  could  love  you  better  !  Pray, 
pray,  recommend  her.  She  is  as  good  a  human  creature,— 
next  to  my  sister,  perhaps,  the  most  exemplary  female  I  ever 
knew.  Moxon  tells  me  you  would  like  a  letter  from  me ; 
you  shall  have  one.  This  I  cannot  mingle  up  with  any  non- 
sense which  you  usually  tolerate  from  C.  Lamb.  Need  he 
add  loves  to  wife,  sister,  and  all  ?  Poor  Mary  is  ill  again, 
after  a  short  lucid  interval  of  four  or  five  months.  In  short 
I  may  call  her  half  dead  to  me.  How  good  you  are  to  me ! 
Yours  with  fervor  of  friendship  for  ever,  C.  L. 

If  you  want  references,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  may  be 

one.     L 's  sister  (as  good  as  she,  she   can't  be  better 

though  she  tries)  educated  the  daughters  of  the  late  Earl  of 
Carnarvon,  and  he  settled  a  handsome  annuity  on  her  for 
life.     In  short,  all  the  family  are  a  sound  rock. 
9 


194  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

A  quiet  dinner  at  the  British  Museum  with  Mr.  Gary 
once  a-month,  to  which  Lamb  loolved  forward  witli  almost 
boyish  eagerness,  was  now  almost  his  only  festival.  In  a 
little  note  to  his  host  about  this  time,  he  hints  at  one  of  his 
few  physical  tastes. — "  We  are  thinking,"  he  says,  "of  roast 
shoulder  of  mutton  with  onion  sauce,  but  I  scorn  to  prescribe 
to  the  hospitalities  of  mine  host."  The  following,  after  these 
festivities  had  been  interrupted  by  Mr.  Gary's  visit  to  the 
Gontinent,  is  their  last  memorial : — 


TO    MR,    GARY. 

Sept.  12,  1834. 
"By   Got's    plessing   we    will   not  ^be    absence   at   the 
grace." 

Dear  G., 

We  long  to  see  you,  and  hear  account  of  your 
peregrinations,  of  the  Tun  at  Heidelburg,  the  Clock  at 
Strasburg,  the  statue  at  Rotterdam,  the  dainty  Rhenish,  and 
poignant  Moselle  wines,  Westphalian  hams,  and  Botargoes 
of  Altona.  But  perhaps  you  have  seen,  not  tasted  any  of 
these  things. 

Yours,  very  glad  to  chain  you  back  again  to  your  proper 
centre,  books,  and  Bibliothecse. 

G.  and  M.  Lamb. 

I  have  only  got  your  note  just  now  per  neglig^ntiam  perin- 
qui  Moxoni. 

The    following   little    note    has  a  mournful    interest,  as 
Lamb's  last  scrap  of  writing.     It  is  dated  on  the  very  day 
on  which  erysipelas  followed  the  accident,  apparently  trifling, 
which,   five  days  after,  terminated   in  his  death.     It  is  ad-, 
dressed  to  the  wife  of  his  oldest  surviving  friend  : — 


to  mrs.  dyer. 

Dear  Mrs.  Dyer, 

I  am  very  uneasy  about  a  Book  which  I  either  have 
lost,  or  left  at  your  house  on  Thursday.     It  was  the  book  I 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    DVER.  195 

went  out  to  fetch  from  Miss  Buffam's,  while  the  tripe  was 
frying.  It  is  called  "  Phillips's  Theatrum  Poetarum,"  but  it 
is  an  English  book.  I  think  I  left  it  in  the  parlor.  It  is  Mr. 
Gary's  book,  and  I  would  not  lose  it  lor  the  world.  Pray  if 
you  find  it,  book  it  at  the  Swan,  Snow  Hill,  by  an  Edmonton 
stage  immediately,  directed  to  Mr.  Lamb,  Church  Street, 
Edmonton,  or  write  to  say  you  cannot  find  it.  I  am  quite 
anxious  about  it.     If  it  is  lost,  I  shall  never  like  tripe  again. 

With  kindest  love  to  Mr.  Dyer  and  all. 

Yours,  truly, 

C.  Lamb. 

Dec.  22,  1834. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 


lamb's  WEDNESDAY  NIGHTS  COMPARED  WITH  THE  EVENINGS  OP  HOLLAND 
HOUSE — HIS  DEAD  COMPANIONS,  DYER,  GODWIN,  THELWALL,  HAZLITT, 
BARNES,  HAYDON,  COLERIDGE,  AND  OTHERS — LAST  GLIMPSES  OF  CHARLES 
AND    MARY    LAMB. 

"  GONE  ;    ALL  ARE  GONE,  THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES  !" 


Two  circles  of  rare  social  enjoyment — -differing  as  widely 
as  possible  in  all  external  circumstances — but  each  superior 
in  its  kind  to  all  others,  were  at  the  same  time  generously 
opened  to  men  of  letters — now  existing  only  in  the  memories 
of  those  who  are  fast  departing  from  us,  may,  without  of- 
fence, be  placed  side  by  side  in  grateful  recollection ;  they 
are  the  dinners  at  Holland  House  and  the  suppers  of  "the 
Lambs  "  at  the  Temple,  Great  Russell  Street,  and  Islington. 
Strange,  at  first,  as  this  juxtaposition  may  seem,  a  little  re- 
flection will  convince  the  few  survivors  who  have  enjoyed 
both,  that  it  involves  no  injustice  to  either  ;  while  with  those 
who  are  too  young  to  have  been  admitted  to  these  old  fes- 
tivities, we  may  exercise  the  privilege  of  age  by  boasting 
what  good  fellowship  was  once  enjoyed,  and  what  "  good  talk" 
there  was  once  in  the  world  ! 

But  let  us  call  to  mind  the  aspects  of  each  scene,  before 
we  attempt  to  tell  of  the  conversation,  which  will  be  harder 
to  recall  and  impossible  to  characterize.  And  first,  let  us 
invite  the  reader  to  assist  at  a  dinner  at  Holland  House  in 
the  height  of  the  London  and  Parliamentary  season,  say  a 
Saturday  in  June.  It  is  scarcely  seven — for  the  luxuries  of 
the  house  are  enhanced  by  a  punctuality  in  the  main  object 
of  the  day,  which  yields  to  no  dilatory  guest  of  whatever 
pretension — and  you  are  seated  in  an  oblong  room,  rich  in 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  197 

old  <filding,  opposite  a  deep  recess,  pierced  by  large  old  win- 
dows through  which  the  rich  branches  of  trees  bathed  in 
golden  light,  just  admit  the  faint  outline  of  the  Surrey  Hills. 
Among  the  guests  are  some  perhaps  of  the  highest  rank,  al- 
ways some  of  high  political  importance,  about  whom  the  in- 
terest of  busy  life  gathers,  intermixed  with  others  eminent 
already  in  literature  or  art,  or  of  that  dawning  promise  which 
the  hostess  delights  to  discover  and  the  host  to  smile  on.  All 
are  assembled  for  the  purpose  of  enjoyment;  the  anxieties  of 
the  minister,  the  feverish  struggles  of  tiie  partisan,  the  silent 
toils  of  the  artist  or  critic,  are  finished  for  the  week  ;  pro- 
fessional and  literary  jealousies  are  hushed  ;  sickness,  de- 
crepitude and  death,  are  silently  voted  shadows  ;  and  the 
brilliant  assemblage  is  prepared  to  exercise  to  the  highest 
degree  the  extraordinary  privilege  of  mortals  to  live  in  the 
knowledge  of  mortality  without  its  consciousness,  and  to 
people  the  present  hour  with  delights,  as  if  a  man  lived  and 
laughed  and  enjoyed  in  this  world  for  ever.  Every  appli- 
ance of  physical  luxury  which  the  most  delicate  art  can 
supply,  attends  on  each  ;  every  faint  wish  which  luxury 
creates  is  anticipated  ;  the  noblest  and  most  gracious  coun- 
tenance in  the  world  smiles  over  the  happiness  it  is  diffusing, 
and  redoubles  it  by-  cardial  invitations  and  encouraging 
words,  which  set  the  humblest  stranger  guest  at  perfect  ease. 
As  the  dinner  merges  into  the  dessert,  and  the  sunset  casts  a 
richer  glow  on  the  branches,  still,  or  lightly  waving  in  the 
evening  light,  and  on  the  scene  within,  the  harmony  of  all 
sensations  becomes  more  perfect ;  a  delighted  and  delighting 
chuckle  invites  attention  to  some  joyous  sally  of  the  richest 
intellectual  wit  reflected  in  the  faces  of  all,  even  to  the  fa- 
vorite page  in  green,  who  attends  his  mistress  with  duty  like 
that  of  tiie  anticjue  world  ;  the  choicest  wines  are  enhanced 
in  their  liberal  but  temperate  use  by  the  vista  opened  in  Lord 
Holland's  talcs  of  bacchanalian  evenings  at  Brookes's,  with 
Fox  and  Sheridan,  when  potations  deeper  and  more  serious 
rewarded  the  Statesman's  toils  and  shortened  his  days  ;  until 
at  length  the  serener  pleasure  of  conversation,  of  the  now 
carelessly  scattered  groups,  is  enjoyed  in  that  old,  long,  un- 
rivalled library  in  which  Addison  drank,  and  mused,  and 
wrote  ;  where  every  living  grace  attends  ;  "  and  more  than 
echoes  talk  along  the  walls."      One  happy  peculiarity  of 


198  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

these  assemblies  was,  the  number  of  persons  in  different  sta- 
tions and  of  various  celebrity,  who  were  gratified  by  seeing, 
still  more,  in  hearing  and  knowing  each  other ;  the  states- 
man was  relieved  by  association  with  the  poet  of  whom  he 
had  heard  and  partially  read  ;  and  the  poet  was  elevated  by 
the  courtesy  which  "  bared  the  great  heart"  which  "  beats 
beneath  a  star;"  and  each  felt,  not  rarely,  the  true  dignity 
of  the  other,  modestly  expanding  under  the  most  genial  aus- 
pices. 

Now  turn  to  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  at  ten  o'clock, 
when  the  sedater  part  of  the  company  are  assembled,  and  the 
happier  stragglers  are  dropping  in  from  the  play.  Let  it  be 
any  autumn  or  winter  month,  when  the  fire  is  blazing 
steadily,  and  the  clean-swept  hearth  and  whist-tables  speak 
of  the  spirit  of  Mrs.  Battle,  and  serious  looks  require  "  the 
rigor  of  the  game."  The  furniture  is  old-fashioned  and 
worn  ;  the  ceiling  low,  and  not  wholly  unstained  by  traces 
of  "  the  great  plant,"  though  now  virtuously  forborne ;  but 
the  Hogarths,  in  narrow  black  frames,  abounding  in  infinite 
thought,  humor  and  pathos,  enrich  the  walls  ;  and  all  things 
wear  an  air  of  comfort  and  hearty  English  welcome.  Lamb 
himself,  yet  unrelaxed  by  the  glass,  is  sitting  with  a  sort  of 
Quaker  primness  at  the  whist-table,  the  gentleness  of  his 
melancholy  smile  half  lost  in  his  intentness  on  the  game  ;  his 
partner,  the  author  of  "  Political  Justice,"  (the  majestic  ex- 
pression of  his  large  head  not  disturbed  by  disproportion  of 
his  comparatively  diminutive  stature,)  is  regarding  his  hand 
with  a  philosophic  but  not  a  careless  eye ;  Catpain  Burney, 
only  not  venerable  because  so  young  in  spirit,  sits  between 
them  ;  and  H.  C.  R.,  who  alone  now  and  then  breaks  the 
proper  silence,  to  welcome  some  incoming  guest,  is  his  happy 
partner — true  winner  in  the  game  of  life,  whose  leisure 
achieved  early,  is  devoted  to  his  friends.  At  another  table, 
just  beyond  the  circle  which  extends  from  the  fire,  sit  another 
four.  The  broad,  burly,  jovial  bulk  of  John  Lamb,  the  Ajax 
Telamon  of  the  slender  clerks  of  the  old  South  Sea  House, 
whom  he  sometimes  introduces  to  the  rooms  of  his  younger 
brother,  surprised  to  learn  from  them  that  he  is  growing  fa- 
mous, confronts  the  stately  but  courteous  Alsager  ;  while  P., 
"  his  few  liairs  bristling  at  gentle  objurgation,  watches  his 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  199 

partner  M.  B.,  dealing  with  soul  more  white"*  than  the 
hands  of  which  Lamb  once  said,  "  M.,  if  dirt  was  trumps, 
what  hands  you  would  hold  !"  In  one  corner  of  tlic  room, 
you  may  see  the  pale  earnest  countenance  of  Charles  Lloyd, 
who  is  discoursing  "  of  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  abso- 
lute," with  Leigh  Hunt ;  and,  if  you  choose  to  listen,  you 
will  scarcely  know  which  most  to  admire — the  severe  logic 
of  the  melancholy  reasoner,  or  its  graceful  evasion  by  the 
tricksome  fantasy  of  the  joyous  poet.  Basil  Montague,  gen- 
tle enthusiast  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  which  he  has  lived 
to  see  triumphant,  is  pouring  into  the  outstretched  ear  of 
George  Dyer  some  tale  of  legalized  injustice,  which  the  re- 
cipient is  vainly  endeavoring  to  comprehend.  Soon  the 
room  fills  ;  in  slouches  Ilazlitt  from  tlic  theatre,  where  his 
stubborn  anger  for  Napoleon's  defeat  at  Waterloo  has  been 
softened  by  Miss  Stephens's  angelic  notes,  which  might 
"  chase  anger,  and  grief,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
from  mortal  or  innnortal  minds  ;"  Kenney,  with  a  tremulous 
pleasure  announces  that  there  is  a  crowded  house  to  the 
ninth  representation  of  his  new  comedy,  of  which  Lamb  lays 
down  his  cards  to  inquire  ;  or  Ayrton,  mildly  radiant,  whis- 
pers the  continual  triumph  of  "  Don  Giovanni,"  for  which 
Lamb,  incapable  of  opera,  is  happy  to  take  his  word.  Now 
and  then  an  actor  glances  on  us  from  "  the  rich  Cathay''  of 
the  world  behind  the  scenes,  with  news  of  its  brighter  hu- 
man kind,  and  with  looks  reflecting  the  public  favor — Listen, 
grave  beneath  the  weight  of  the  town's  regards — or  Miss 
Kelly,  unexhausted  in  spirit  by  alternating  the  drolleries  of 
high  farce  with  theteriible  pathos  of  melodrama — or  Charles 
Kemble  mirrors  the  chivalry  of  thought,  and  ennobles  the 
party  by  bending  on  them  looks  beaming  with  the  aristocra- 
cy of  nature.  Meanwhile  Becky  lays  the  cloth  on  the  side- 
table,  under  the  direction  of  the  most  quiet,  sensible,  and  kind 
of  women — wlio  soon  compels  the  younger  and  more  hungry 
of  the  guests  to  partake  largely  of  the  cold  roast  lamb  or 
boiled  beef,  the  heaps  of  smoking  roasted  potatoes,  and  the 
vast  jug  of  porter,  often  replenished   from  the  foaming  pots, 

*  Lamb's  Sonnet,  dedicatory  of  his  first  volume  of  prose  to  this  cher- 
ished friend,  thus  concludes  : — 

"  Free  from  self-seekin;;,  envy,  lou-  design, 
r  have  not  found  a  whiter  soul  than  thine." 


200  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

which  the  best  tap  of  Fleet  Street  supplies.  Perfect  freedom 
prevails,  save  when  the  hospitable  pressure  of  the  mistress 
excuses  excess ;  and  perhaps,  the  physical  enjoyment  of  the 
play-goer  exhausted  with  pleasure,  or  of  the  author  jaded 
with  the  labor  of  the  brain,  is  not  less  than  that  of  the  guests 
at  the  most  charming  of  aristocratic  banquets.  As  the  hot 
water  and  its  accompaniments  appear,  and  the  severities  of 
whist  relax,  the  light  of  conversation  thickens  :  Hazlitt,  catch- 
ing the  influence  of  the  spirit  from  which  he  has  just  begun 
to  abstain,  utters  some  fine  criticism  with  struggling  empha- 
sis ;  Lamb  stammers  out  puns  suggestive  of  wisdom,  for 
happy  Barron  Field  to  admire  and  echo  ;  the  various  drib- 
bles of  talk  combine  into  a  stream,  Avhile  Miss  Lamb  moves 
gently  about  to  see  that  each  modest  stranger  is  duly  served  ; 
turning,  now  and  then,  an  anxious  loving  eye  on  Charles, 
which  is  softened  into  a  half-humorous  expression  of  resigna- 
tion to  inevitable  fate,  as  he  mixes  his  second  tumbler  !  This 
is  on  ordinary  nights,  when  the  accustomed  Wednesday-men 
assemble  ;  but  there  is  a  difference  on  great  extra  nights, 
gladdened  by  "  the  bright  visitations"  of  Wordsworth  or  Cole- 
ridge : — the  cordiality  of  the  welcome  is  the  same,  but  a  se. 
dater  wisdom  prevails.  Happy  hours  were  they  for  the  young 
disciple  of  the  then  desperate,  now  triumphant  cause  of 
Wordsworth's  genius,  to  be  admitted  to  the  presence  of  thtf 
poet  who  had  opened  a  new  world  for  him  in  the  undiscover- 
ed riches  of  his  own  nature,  and  its  aifinities  with  the  outer 
universe ;  whom  he  worshiped  the  more  devoutly  for  the 
world's  scorn  ;  for  whom  he  felt  the  future  in  the  instant,  and 
anticipated  the  "  All  hail  hereafter  !"  which  the  great  poet 
has  lived  to  enjoy  !  To  win  him  to  speak  of  his  own  poetry — 
to  hear  him  recite  its  noblest  passages — and  to  join  in  his 
brave  defiance  of  the  fashion  of  the  age — was  the  solemn 
pleasure  of  such  a  season  ;  and,  of  course,  superseded  all 
minor  disquisitions.  So,  when  Coleridge  came,  argument, 
wit,  humor,  criticism  were  hushed  ;  the  pertest,  smartest,  and 
the  cleverest  felt  that  all  were  assembled  to  listen  ;  and  if  a 
card-table  had  been  filled,  or  a  dispute  begun  before  he  was 
excited  to  continuous  speech,  his  gentle  voice,  undulating  in 
music,  soon 

"  Suspended  lohist,  and  took  with  ravisliment 
Tlie  thronging  audience." 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  201 


The  conversation  which  animated  each  of  these  memor- 
able circles,  approximated,  in  essence,  much  more  nearly 
than  might  be  surmised  from  the  difference  in  station  of  the 
principal  talkers,  and  the  contrast  in  physical  appliances ; 
that  of  the  bowered  saloon  of  Holland  House  having  more  of 
earnestness  and  depth,  and  that  of  the  Temple-attic  more  of 
airy  grace  than  would  be  predicated  by  a  superficial  observer. 
The  former  possessed  the  peculiar  interest  of  directly  border- 
ing on  the  scene  of  political  conflict — gathering  together  the 
most  eloquent  leaders  of  the  Whig  party,  whose  eager  repose 
from  energetic  action  spoke  of  the  week's  conflict,  and  in 
whom  the  moment's  enjoyment  derived  a  peculiar  charm 
from  the  perilous  glories  of  the  struggle  which  the  morrow 
was  to  renew — when  power  was  just  within  reach,  or  held 
with  a  convulsive  grasp — like  the  eager  and  solemn  pleasure 
of  the  soldiers'  banquet  in  the  pause  of  victory.  The  per- 
vading spirit  of  Lamb's  parties  was  also  that  of  social  pro- 
gress ;  bufit  was  the  spirit  of  tlie  dreamers  and  thinkers, 
not  of  the  combatants  of  the  world — men,  who,  it  may  be, 
drew  their  theories  from  a  deeper  range  of  meditation,  and 
embraced  the  future  with  more  comprehensive  hope — but 
about  whom  the  immediate  interest  of  party  did  not  gather  ; 
whose  victories  were  all  within  ;  whose  rewards  were  vis- 
ions of  blessings  for  their  species  in  the  furthest  horizon  of 
hope.  If  a  profounder  thought  was  sometimes  dragged  to 
light  in  the  dim  circle  of  Lamb's  companions  than  was  na- 
tive to  the  brighter  sphere,  it  was  still  a  rare  felicity  to  watch 
there  the  union  of  elegance  with  purpose  in  some  leader  of 
party — the  delicate,  almost  fragile  grace  of  illustration,  in 
some  one,  perhaps  destined  to  lead  advancing  multitudes  or  to 
withstand  their  rashness ;  to  observe  the  growth  of  strength 
in  the  midst  of  beauty,  expanding  from  the  sense  of  the  he- 
roic  past,  as  the  famed  Basil  tree  of  Boccaccio  grew  from  the 
immolated  relic  beneath  it.  If  the  alternations  in  the  former 
oscillated  between  wider  extremes,  touching  on  the  wildest 
farce  and  most  earnest  tragedy  of  life  ;  the  rich  space  of  bril- 
liant comedy  which  lived  ever  between  them  in  the  latter, 
was  diversified  by  serious  interests  and  heroic  allusions.  Syd- 
ney Smith's  wit — not  so  wild,  so  grotesque,  so  deep-search- 
ing, as  Lamb's — had  even  more  quickness  of  intellectual  de- 
monstration ;  wedded  moral  and  political  wisdom  to  happiest 
9* 


202  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

language,  with  a  more  rapid  perception  of  secret  affinities  ;  was 
capable  of  producing  epigrammatic  splendor  reflected  more 
permanently  in  the  mind,  than  the  fantastic  brilliancy  of  those 
I'ich  conceits  which  Lamb  stammered  out  with  his  painful 
smile.  Mackintosh  might  vie  with  Coleridge  in  vast  and  va- 
rious knowledge  ;  but  there  the  competition  between  these 
great  talkers  would  end,  and  the  contrast  begin  ;  the  contrast 
between  facility  and  inspiration  ;  between  the  ready  access 
to  each  ticketed  and  labeled  compartment  of  history,  science, 
art,  criticism,  and  the  genius  that  fused  and  renovated  all. 
But  then  a  younger  spirit  appeared  at  Lord  Holland's  table 
to  redress  the  balance — not  so  poetical  as  Coleridge,  but  more 
lucid — in  whose  vast  and  joyous  memory  all  the  mighty  past 
lived  and  glowed  anew ;  whose  declamations  presented,  not 
groups  tinged  with  distant  light,  like  those  of  Coleridge,  but 
a  series  of  historical  figures  in  relief,  presented  in  bright  suc- 
cession— the  embossed  surfaces  of  heroic  life.*     Rogers  too, 

*  I  take  leave  to  copy  the  glowing  picture  of  the  evenings  of  Hol- 
land House  and  of  its  admirable  master,  drawn  by  this  favorite  guest 
himself,  from  an  article  which  adorned  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  Just 
after  Lord  Holland's  death. 

"  The  time  is  coming,  when,  perhaps,  a  few  old  men,  the  last  survi- 
vors of  our  generation,  will  in  vain  seek,  amidst  new  streets,  and  squares, 
and  railway  stations,  for  the  site  of  that  dwelling  which  was  in  their 
youth  the  favorite  resort  of  wits  and  beauties — of  painters  and  poets — 
of  scholars,  philosophers,  and  statesmen.  They  will  then  remember, 
with  strange  tenderness,  many  objects  once  familiar  to  them — the  ave- 
nue and  the  terrace,  the  busts  and  the  paintings  ;  the  carving,  the  gro- 
tesque gilding,  and  the  enigmatical  mottoes.  With  peculiar  fondness 
they  will  recall  that  venerable  chamber,  in  which  all  the  antique  gravity 
of  a  college  library  was  so  singularly  blended  with  all  that  female  grace 
and  wit  could  devise  to  embellish  a  drawing-room.  They  will  recol- 
lect, not  unmoved,  those  shelves  loaded  with  the  varied  learning  of  many 
lands  and  many  ages  ;  those  portraits  in  which  were  preserved  the  fea- 
tures of  the  best  and  wisest  Englishmen  of  two  generations.  They  will 
recollect  how  many  men  who  have  guided  the  politics  of  Europe — who 
have  moved  great  assemblies  by  reason  and  eloquence — who  have  put 
life  into  bronze  and  canvas,  or  who  have  left  to  posterity  things  so  writ- 
ten as  it  shall  not  willingly  let  them  die — were  there  mixed  with  all 
that  was  loveliest  and  gayest  in  the  society  of  the  most  splendid  of  capi- 
tals. They  will  remember  the  singular  character  which  belonged  to 
that  circle,  in  which  every  talent  and  accomplishment,  every  art  and  sci- 
ence, had  its  place.  They  will  remember  how  the  last  debate  was  dis- 
cussed in  one  corner,  and  the  last  comedy  of  Scrihe  in  another ;  while 
Wilkie  gazed   with  modest  admiration  on  Reynolds'  Barretti;    while 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  203 


was  there — connecting  the  literature  of  the  last  age  with  this, 
partaking  of  some  of  the  best  characteristics  of  both — whose 
first  poem  sparkled  in  the  closing  darkness  of  the  last  cen- 
tury "  like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear,"  and  who  was 
advancing  from  a  youth  which  had  anticipated  memory,  to  an 
age  of  kinthiess  and  hope  ;  and  Moore,  who  paused  in  the 
fluttering  expression  of  graceful  trifles,  to  whisper  some  deep- 
toned  thought  of  Ireland's  wrongs  and  sorrows. 

Literature  and  Art  supplied  the  favorite  topics  to  each  of 
these  assemblies, — both  discussed  with  earnest  admiration, 
but  surveyed  in  diflbrent  aspects.  The  conversation  at  Lord 
Holland's  was  wont  to  mirror  the  happiest  aspects  of  the  living 
mind  ;  to  celebrate  the  latest  discoveries  in  science  ;  to  echo 
the  quarterly  decisions  of  imperial  criticism  ;  to  reflect  the 
modest  glow  of  young  reputations  ; — all  was  gay,  graceful, 
decisive,  as  if  the  pen  of  Jeff'rey  could  have  spoken  ;  or,  if 
it  reverted  to  old  times,  it  rejoiced  in  those  classical  associa- 
tions whicii  are  ever  young.  At  Lamb's,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  topics  were  chiefly  sought  among  the  obscure  and  remote  ; 

Mackintosh  turned  over  Thomas  Aquinas  to  verify  a  quotation  ;  while 
Talleyrand  related  his  conversations  with  Barras  at  the  Luxemburg,  or 
his  ride  with  Lannes  over  the  field  of  Austerlitz.  They  will  remem- 
ber, above  all,  the  grace — and  the  kindness,  far  more  admirable  than 
grace — with  which  the  princely  hospitality  of  that  ancient  mansion  was 
dispensed.  They  will  remember  the  venerable  and  benignant  counte- 
nance, and  the  cordial  voice  of  him  who  bade  them  welcome.  They  will 
remember  that  temper  which  years  of  pain,  of  sickness,  of  lameness,  of 
confinement,  seemed  only  to  make  sweeter  and  sweeter  ;  and  that  frank 
politeness,  which  at  once  relieved  all  the  embarrassment  of  the  young- 
est and  most  timid  writer  or  artist,  who  found  himself  for  the  first  time 
among  Ambassadors  and  Earls.  Tiiey  will  remember  that  constant 
flow  of  conversation,  so  natural,  so  animated,  so  various,  so  rich  with 
observation  and  anecdote  ;  that  wit  which  never  gave  a  wound  ;  that 
exquisite  mimicry  which  ennobled,  instead  of  degrading;  that  goodness 
of  heart  which  appeared  in  every  look  and  accent,  and  gave  additional 
value  to  every  talent  and  acquirement.  They  will  remember,  too,  that 
he  whose  name  they  hold  in  reverence  was  not  less  distinguished  by  the 
inflexible  uprightness  of  his  political  conduct,  than  by  his  loving  disposi- 
tion and  his  winning  manners.  They  will  remember  that,  in  the  last  lines 
which  he  traced,  he  expressed  his  joy  that  he  had  done  nothing  unworthy 
of  the  friend  of  Fox  and  Grey  ;  and  they  will  have  reason  to  feel  similar 
joy,  if,  in  looking  back  on  many  troubled  years,  they  cannot  accuse  them- 
selves of  having  done  any  thing  unworthy  of  men  who  were  distinguished 
by  the  friendship  of  Lord  Holland." 


204  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMD. 

the  odd,  the  quaint,  the  fantastic,  were  drawn  out  from 
their  dusty  recesses ;  nothing  could  be  more  foreign  to  its 
embrace  than  the  modern  circulating  library,  even  when  it 
teemed  with  the  Scotch  novels.  Whatever  the  subject 
was,  however,  in  the  more  aristocratic,  or  the  humbler 
sphere,  it  was  always  discussed  by  those  best  entitled  to  talk 
on  it ;  no  others  had  a  chance  of  being  heard.  This  remarka- 
ble freedom  from  hores  was  produced  in  Lamb's  circle  by 
the  authoritative  texture  of  its  commanding  minds ;  in  Lord 
Holland's  by  the  more  direct,  and  more  genial  influence  of 
the  hostess,  which  checked  that  tenacity  of  subject  and  opin- 
ion which  sometimes  broke  the  charm  of  Lamb's  parties  by 
"a  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate."  Perhaps  beyond  any 
other  hostess, — certainly  far  beyond  any  host,  Lady  Holland 
possessed  the  tact  of  perceiving,  and  the  power  of  evoking 
the  various  capacities  which  lurked  in  every  part  of  the 
brilliant  circles  over  which  she  presided,  and  restrained  each 
to  its  appropriate  sphere,  and  portion  of  the  evening.  To 
enkindle  the  enthusiasm  of  an  artist  on  the  theme  over  which 
he  had  achieved  the  most  facile  mastery ;  to  set  loose  the 
heart  of  the  rustic  poet,  and  imbue  his  speech  with  the  free- 
dom of  his  native  hills ;  to  draw  from  the  adventurous  trav- 
eler a  breathing  picture  of  his  most  imminent  danger;  or  to 
embolden  the  bashful  soldier  to  disclose  his  own  share  in  the 
perils  and  glories  of  some  famous  battle-field ;  to  encourage 
the  generous  praise  of  friendship  when  the  speaker  and  the 
subject  reflected  interest  on  each  other ;  or  win  from  an 
awkward  man  of  science  the  secret  history  of  a  discovery 
which  had  astonished  the  world  ;  to  conduct  these  brilliant 
developments  to  the  height  of  satisfaction,  and  then  to  shift 
the  scene  by  the  magic  of  a  word,  were  among  her  nightly 
successes.  And  if  this  exti'aordinary  power  over  the  ele- 
ments of  social  enjoyment  was  sometimes  wielded  without 
the  entire  concealment  of  its  despotism  ;  if  a  decisive  check 
sometimes  rebuked  a  speaker  who  might  intercept  the  varie- 
gated beauty  of  Jeffrey's  indulgent  criticism,  or  the  jest  an- 
nounced and  self-rewarded  in  Sydney  Smith's  cordial  and 
triumphant  laugh,  the  authority  was  too  clearly  exerted  for 
the  evening's  prosperity,  and  too  mtmifestly  impelled  by  an 
urgent  consciousness  of  the  value  of  these  golden  hours 
which  were  fleeting  within  its  confines,  to  sadden  the  enforced 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  205 


silence  witli  more  tiian  a  momentary  regret.  If  ever  her 
prohibition, — clear,  abrupt,  and  decisive,. — indicated  more 
than  a  preferable  regard  for  livelier  discourse,  it  was  when  a 
depreciatory  tone  was  adopted  towards  genius,  or  goodness, 
or  honest  endeavor,  or  when  some  friend,  personal  or  intel- 
lectual, was  mentioned  in  slighting  phrase.  Habituated  to 
generous  partizanship,  hy  strong  sympathy  with  a  great 
political  cause,  she  carried  the  fidelity  of  her  devotion  to 
that  cause  into  her  social  relations,  and  was  ever  the  truest 
and  the  fastest  of  friends.  The  tendency,  often  more  idle 
than  malicious,  to  soften  down  the  intellectual  claims  of  the 
absent,  which  so  insidiously  besets  literary  conversation,  and 
teaches  a  superficial  insincerity,  even  to  substantial  esteem 
and  regard,  and  which  was  sometimes  insinuated  into  the 
conversation  of  Lamb's  friends,  though  never  into  his  own, 
found  no  favor  in  her  presence ;  and  hence  tlie  conversations 
over  which  she  presided,  perhaps  beyond  all  that  ever  flashed 
with  a  kindred  splendor,  were  marked  by  that  integrity  of 
good-nature  which  might  admit  of  their  exact  repetition  to 
every  living  individual  whose  merits  were  discussed,  without 
the  danger  of  inflicting  pain.  Under  her  auspices,  not  only 
all  critical,  but  all  personal  talk  was  tinged  with  kindness ; 
the  strong  interest  which  she  took  in  the  happiness  of  her 
friends,  shed  a  peculiar  sunniness  over  the  aspects  of  life 
presented  by  the  common  topics  of  alliances,  and  marriages, 
and  promotions  ;  and  there  was  not  a  hopeful  engagement,  or 
a  happy  wedding,  or  a  promotion  of  a  friend's  son,  or  a  new 
intellectual  triumph  of  any  youth  witli  whose  name  and  his- 
tory she  was  familiar,  but  became  an  event  on  which  she 
expected  and  required  congratulation  as  on  a  part  of  her  own 
fortune.  Although  there  was  necessarily  a  preponderance 
in  her  society  of  the  sentiment  of  popular  progress,  which 
once  was  cherished  almost  exclusively  by  the  party  to  whom 
Lord  Holland  was  united  by  sacred  ties,  no  expression  of 
triumph  in  success,  no  virulence  in  sudden  disappointment, 
was  ever  permitted  to  wound  the  most  sensitive  ears  of  her 
conservative  guests.  It  might  be  that  some  placid  compari- 
son of  recent  with  former  times,  spoke  a  sense  of  freedom's 
peaceful  victory ;  or  that,  on  the  giddy  edge  of  some  great 
party  struggle,  the  festivities  of  the  evening  might  take  a 
more  serious  cast,  as  news  arrived  from  the  scene  of  contest. 


206  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

and  the  pleasure  might  be  deepened  by  the  peril ;  but  the 

feeling  was  always  restrained  by  the  supremacy  given  to 
those  permanent  solaces  for  the  mind,  in  the  beautiful  and  the 
great,  which  no  political  changes  could  disturb.  Although 
the  death  of  the  noble  master  of  the  venerated  mansion 
closed  its  portals  for  ever  on  the  exquisite  enjoyments  to 
which  they  had  been  so  generously  expanded,  the  art  of  con- 
versation lived  a  little  longer  in  the  smaller  circle  which 
Lady  Holland  still  drew  almost  daily  around  her;  honoring 
his  memory  by  following  his  example,  and  struggling  against 
the  perpetual  sense  of  unutterable  bereavement,  by  rendering 
to  literature  that  honor,  and  those  reliefs,  which  English  aris- 
tocracy has  too  often  denied  it ;  and  seeking  consolation  in 
making  others  proud  and  happy.  That  lingering  happiness 
is  extinct  now  ;  Lamb's  kindred  circle — kindred,  though  so 
different — dispersed  almost  before  he  died  ;  the  "  thoughts 
that  wandered  through  eternity,"  are  no  longer  expressed  in 
time ;  the  fancies  and  conceits,  "  gay  creatures  of  the  ele- 
ment "  of  social  delight,  "  that  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow 
lived,  and  played  in  the  plighted  clouds,"  flicker  only  in  the 
backward  perspective  of  waning  years  ;  and  for  the  survivors, 
I  may  venture  to  affirm,  no  such  conversation  as  they  have 
shared  in  either  circle  will  ever  be  theirs  again  in  this  world. 
Before  closing  these  last  memorials  of  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb,  it  may  not  be  unfitting  to  glance  separately  at  some 
of  the  friends  who  are  grouped  around  them  in  memory,  and 
who,  like  them,  live  only  in  recollection,  and  in  the  works 
they  have  left  behind. 

George  Dyer  was  one  of  the  first  objects  of  Lamb's 
youthful  reverence,  for  he  had  attained  the  stately  rank  of 
Grecian  in  the  venerable  school  of  Christ's  Hospital,  when 
Charles  entered  it,  a  little,  timid,  atlectionate  child  ;  but  this 
boyish  respect,  once  amounting  to  awe,  gave  place  to  a  fami- 
liar habit  of  loving  banter,  which,  springing  from  the  depths 
of  old  regard,  approximated  to  school-boy  roguery,  and,  now 
and  then,  though  very  rarely,  gleamed  on  the  consciousness 
of  the  ripe  scholar.  No  contrast  could  be  more  vivid  than 
that  presented  by  the  relations  of  each  to  the  literature  they 
both  loved  ;  one  divining  its  inmost  essences,  plucking  out 
the  heart  of  its  mysteries,  shedding  light  on  its  dimmest  re- 


GEORGE    DYER.  207 


cesses ;  the  other  devoted,  with  equal  assiduity,  to  its  exter- 
nals. Books,  to  Dyer,  "  were  a  real  world,  both  pure  and 
good  ;"  among  them  he  passed,  unconscious  of  time,  from 
youth  to  extreme  age,  vegetating  on  their  dates  and  forms, 
and  "  trivial  fond  records,"  in  the  learned  air  of  great  libra- 
ries, or  the  dusty  confusion  of  his  own,  with  the  least  possi- 
ble apprehension  of  any  human  interest  vital  in  their  pages, 
or  of  any  spirit  of  wit  or  foncy  glancing  across  them.  His 
life  was  an  Academic  Pastoral.  Methinks  I  see  his  gaunt, 
awkward  form,  set  oiT  by  trousers  too  short,  like  those  out- 
grown by  a  gawky  lad,  and  a  rusty  coat  as  much  too  large 
for  the  wearer,  hanging  about  him  like  those  garments  which 
the  aristocratic  Milesian  peasantry  prefer  to  the  most  com- 
fortable rustic  dress ;  his  long  head  silvered  over  with  short 
yet  straggling  hair,  and  his  dark  gray  eyes  glistening  with 
faith  and  wonder,  as  Lamb  satisfies  the  curiosity  which  has 
gently  disturbed  his  studies  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  Waverly 
Novels,  by  telling  him,  in  tlie  strictest  confidence,  that  they 
are  the  works  of  Lord  Castlereagh,  just  returned  from  the 
Congress  of  Sovereigns  at  Vienna  !  Off  he  runs,  with  ani- 
mated stride  and  shambling  enthusiasm,  nor  stops  till  he 
reaches  Maida  Hill,  and  breathes  his  news  into  the  startled 
ear  of  Leigh  Hunt,  who,  "  as  a  public  writer,"  ought  to  be 
possessed  of  the  great  fact  with  which  George  is  laden  ! 
Or  shall  I  endeavor  to  revive  the  bewildered  look  with 
which,  just  after  he  had  been  announced  as  one  of  Lord 
Stanhope's  executors  and  residuary  legatees,  he  received 
Lamb's  grave  inquiry,  "  Whether  it  was  true,  as  commonly 
reported,  that  he  was  to  be  made  a  Lord  ?"  "  O  dear  no  ! 
Mr.  Lamb,"  responded  he  with  earnest  seriousness,  but  not 
without  a  moment's  quivering  vanity,  "  I  could  not  think 
of  such  a  thing  ;  it  is  not  true,  I  assure  you."  "  I  thought 
not,"  said  Lamb,  "  and  I  contradict  it  wherever  I  go ;  but 
the  government  will  not  ask  your  consent  ;  they  may  raise 
you  to  the  peerage  without  your  even  knowing  it."  "  I  hope 
not,  Mr.  Lamb  ;  indeed,  indeed,  I  hope  not ;  it  would  not 
suit  me  at  all,"  responded  Dyer,  and  went  his  way,  musing 
on  the  possibility  of  a  strange  honor  descending  on  his  reluc- 
tant brow.  Or  shall  I  recall  the  visible  presentiment  of  his 
bland  unconsciousness  of  evil  when  his  sportive  friend  taxed 
it  to  the  utmost,  by  suddenly  asking  what  he  thought  of  the 


208  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF    CIIAELES    LAMB. 

murderer  Williams,  who,  after  destroying  two  families  in 
Ratcliffe  Highway,  had  bi'oken  prison  by  suicide,  and  whose 
body  had  just  before  been  conveyed  in  shocking  procession 
•40  its  cross-road  grave  !  The  desperate  attempt  to  compel 
the  gentle  optimist  to  speak  ill  of  a  mortal  creature  produced 
no  happier  success  than  the  answer,  "  Why,  I  should  think, 
Mr.  Lamb,  he  must  have  been  rather  an  eccentric  charac- 
ter." This  simplicity  of  a  nature  not  only  unspotted  by  the 
world,  but  almost  abstracted  from  it,  will  seem  the  more  re- 
markable, when  it  is  known  that  it  was  subjected,  at  the  en- 
trance of  life,  to  a  hard  battle  with  fortune.  Dyer  was  the 
son  of  very  poor  parents,  residing  in  an  eastern  suburb  of 
London,  Stepney  or  Bethnal-greenward,  where  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  two  elderly  ladies  as  a  serious  child,  with  an 
extraordinary  love  for  books.  They  obtained  for  him  a  pre- 
sentation to  Christ's  Hospital,  which  he  entered  at  seven 
years  of  age ;  fought  his  way  through  its  sturdy  ranks  to  its 
head  ;  and,  at  nineteen,  quitted  it  for  Cambridge,  with  only 
an  exhibition  and  his  scholarly  accomplishments  to  help  him. 
On  he  went,  however,  placid  if  not  rejoicing,  through  the 
difficulties  of  a  life  illustrated  only  by  scholarship  ;  encoun- 
tering tremendous  labors ;  unresting  yet  serene  ;  until  at 
eighty-five  he  breathed  out  the  most  blameless  of  lives,  which 
began  in  a  struggle  to  end  in  a  learned  di'eam  ! 

Mr.  Godwin,  who  during  the  happiest  period  of  Lamb's 
weekly  parties  was  a  constant  assistant  at  his  whist-table, 
resembled  Dyer  in  simplicity  of  manner  and  devotion  to  let- 
ters;  but  the  simplicity  was  more  superficial,  and  the  devo- 
tion more  profound  than  the  kindred  qualities  in  the  guileless 
scholar  ;  and,  instead  of  forming  the  entire  being,  only  marked 
the  surface  of  a  nature  beneath  which  extraordinary  power 
lay  hidden.  As  the  absence  of  worldly  wisdom  subjected 
Dyer  to  the  sportive  sallies  of  Lamb,  so  a  like  deficiency  in 
Godwin  exposed  him  to  the  coarser  mirth  of  Mr.  Home 
Tookc,  who  was  sometimes  inclined  to  seek  relaxation  for  the 
iron  muscles  of  his  imperturbable  mind  in  trying  to  make  a 
philosopher  look  foolish.  To  a  stranger's  gaze  the  author  of 
the  "  Political  Justice  "  and  "  Caleb  Williams,"  as  he  ap- 
peared in  the  Temple,  always  an  object  of  curiosity  except 
to  his  familiars,  presented  none  of  those  characteristics  with 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  209 


which  fancy  had  invested  the  daring  speculator  and  relentless 
novelist ;  nor,  when  he  broke  silence,  did  his  language  tend 
to  reconcile  the  reality  with  the  expectation.  The  dispro- 
portion of  a  frame  which,  low  of  stature,  was  surmounted  by 
a  massive  head  which  might  befit  a  presentable  giant,  was 
rendered  almost  imperceptible,  not  by  any  vivacity  of  expres- 
sion, (for  his  countenance  was  rarely  lighted  up  by  the  deep- 
seated  genius  within,)  but  i)y  a  gracious  suavity  of  manner 
which  many  "  a  fine  old  English  gentleman  "  might  envy. 
His  voice  was  small  ;  the  topics  of  his  ordinary  conversation 
trivial,  and  discussed  with  a  delicacy  and  precision  which 
might  almost  be  mistaken  for  finical  ;  and  the  presence  of 
the  most  interesting  persons  in  literary  society,  of  which  he 
had  enjoyed  the  best,  would  not  prevent  him  from  falling  af- 
ter dinner  into  the  most  profound  sleep.  This  gentle,  drowsy, 
spiritless  demeanor,  presents  a  striking  contrast  to  a  I'eputa- 
tion  which  once  filled  Europe  with  its  echoes  ;  but  it  was,  in 
truth,  when  rightly  understood,  perfectly  consistent  with 
those  intellectual  elements  which  in  some  raised  the  most  en- 
thusiastic admiration,  and  from  others  elicited  the  wildest  de- 
nunciations of  visionary  terror. 

In  Mr.  Godwin's  mind,  the  faculty  of  abstract  reason  so 
predominated  over  all  others,  as  practically  to  extinguish 
them  ;  and  his  taste,  akin  to  this  faculty,  sought  only  for  its 
development  through  the  medium  of  composition  for  the  press. 
He  had  no  imagination,  no  fancy,  no  wit,  no  humor  ;  or,  if  he 
possessed  any  of  those  faculties,  they  were  obscured  by  that 
of  pure  reason  ;  and  being  wholly  devoid  of  the  quick  sensi- 
bility which  irritates  speech  into  eloquence,  and  of  the  pas- 
sion for  immediate  excitement  and  applause,  which  tends  to 
its  presentment  before  admiring  assemblies,  he  desired  no 
other  audience  than  that  which  he  could  silently  address, 
and  learned  to  regard  all  things  through  a  contemplative  me- 
dium. In  tliis  sense,  far  more  than  the  extravagant  applica- 
tion of  his  wildest  theories,  he  leveled  all  around  him;  ad- 
mitted no  greatness  but  that  of  literature  ;  and  neither  de- 
sired nor  revered  any  triumphs  but  those  of  thought.  If 
such  a  reasoning  faculty,  guided  by  such  a  disposition,  had 
been  applied  to  abstract  sciences,  no  effect  remarkable  be- 
yond that  of  rare  excellence,  would  have  been  produced  ; 
but  the  apparent  anomalies  of  Mr.  Godwin's  intellectual  his- 


210  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

tory  arose  from  the  application  of  his  power  to  the  passions, 
the  interests,  and  the  hopes  of  mankind,  at  a  time  when  they 
enkindled  into  frightful  action,  and  when  he  calmly  worked 
ont  his  problems  among  their  burning  elements  with  the  "  ice- 
brook's  temper,"  and  the  severest  logic.  And  if  some  ex- 
treme conclusions  were  inconsistent  with  the  faith  and  the 
duty  which  alone  can  sustain  and  regulate  our  nature,  there 
was  no  small  compensation  in  the  severity  of  llie  process  to 
which  the  student  was  impelled,  for  the  slender  peril  which 
might  remain  lest  the  results  should  be  practically  adopted. 
A  system  founded  on  pure  reason,  which  I'ejected  the  im- 
pulses of  natural  affection,  the  delights  of  gratitude,  the  influ- 
ences of  prejudice,  the  bondage  of  custom,  the  animation  of 
personal  hope ;  which  appealed  to  no  passion — which  sug- 
gested no  luxury — which  excited  no  animosities — and  which 
offered  no  prize  for  the  observance  of  its  laws,  except  a  par- 
ticipation in  the  expanding  glories  of  progressive  humanity, 
was  little  calculated  to  allure  from  the  accustomed  paths  of 
ancient  ordinance,  any  man  disposed  to  walk  in  them  by  the 
lights  from  heaven.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  healthful  di- 
version from  those  seductions  in  which  the  heart  secretly 
enervates  and  infects  the  understanding,  to  invite  the  revolu- 
tionary speculator  to  the  contemplation  of  the  distant  and  the 
refined  ;  by  the  pursuit  of  impracticable  error  to  brace  the 
mind  for  the  achievement  of  everlasting  truth  ;  and  on  the 
"heat  and  flame  of  the  distemper"  of  an  impassioned  demo- 
cracy to  "sprinkle  cool  patience."  The  idol.  Political  Jus- 
tice, of  which  he  was  the  slow  and  laborious  architect,  if  it 
for  a  while  enchanted,  did  not  long  enthrall  or  ever  debase 
its  worshipers ;  "  its  bones  were  marrowless,  its  blood  was 
cold," — but  there  was  sui'ely  "  speculation  in  its  eyes," 
which  "  glared  withal"  into  the  future.  Such  high  casuistry 
as  it  evoked,  has  always  an  ennobling  tendency,  even  when 
it  dallies  with  error ;  the  direction  of  thought  in  youth  is  of 
less  consequence  than  the  mode  of  its  exercise  ;  and  it  is  only 
when  the  base  interests  and  sensual  passions  of  mortality 
pander  to  the  understanding,  that  truth  may  fear  for  the 
issue. 

The  author  of  tiiis  cold  and  passionless  intellectual  phan- 
tasy, looked  out  upon  the  world  he  hoped  to  inform  from 
recesses  of  contemplation  which  the  outward  incidents  of  life 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  211 


did  not  disturb,  land  which,  when  closed,  left  him  a  common 
man,  appearing  to  superficial  observers,  rather  below  than 
above  the  level  of  ordinary  talkers.  To  his  inward  gaze  the 
stupendous  clianges  wliich  agitated  Europe,  at  the  time  he 
wrote,  were  silent  as  a  picture.  The  pleasure  of  his  life 
was  to  think ;  its  business  was  to  write  ;  all  else  in  it  was 
vanity.  Regarding  his  own  being  through  the  same  spirit- 
ualizing medium,  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  springs  of  its 
existence  should  wear  out,  and,  in  the  springtime  of  his  spe- 
culation, held  that  man  might  become  immortal  on  earth  by 
the  effort  of  the  will.  His  style  partook  of  the  quality  of  his 
intellect  and  the  character  of  its  purposes — it  was  pure, 
simple,  colorless.  His  most  imaginative  '(lassages  are  in- 
spired only  by  a  logic  quickened  into  entiiusiasm  by  the  anti- 
cipation of  tlie  approaching  discovery  of  truth — the  dawning 
Eureka  o^  \.\\e  reasoner;  they  are  usually  composed  of"  line 
upon  line,  precept  upon  precept,"  without  an  involution  of 
style  or  an  eddy  in  the  thought.  He  sometimes  complained, 
though  wit!)  the  benignity  that  always  marked  his  estimate 
of  his  opponents,  that  Mr.  Malthus's  style  was  too  richly  or- 
namented for  argument ;  and  certainly,  with  all  its  vivacity 
of  illustration,  it  lacks  the  transparent  simplicity  of  his  own. 
The  most  probable  result  which  he  ever  produced  by  his 
writings  was  the  dark  theory  of  the  first  edition  of  the  work 
on  Population,  which  was  presented  as  an  answer  to  his  rea- 
soning on  bciialf  of  the  perfectibility  of  man ;  and  he  used 
to  smile  at  his  ultimate  triumph,  when  the  writer,  who  had 
only  intended  a  striking  paradox,  tamed  it  down  to  the  wis- 
dom of  economy,  and  adapted  it  to  Poor-law  uses  ;  neutralized 
his  giant  spectres  of  Vice  and  Misery  by  the  practical  inter- 
vention of  iMoral  Restraint ;  and  left  the  optimist,  Godwin, 
still  in  unclouded  possession  of  the  hope  of  universal  peace 
and  happiness,  postponed  only  to  that  time  when  passion  shall 
be  subjected  to  reason,  and  population,  no  more  rising  like  a 
resistless  tide,  between  adamantine  barriers  to  submerge  the 
renovated  earth,  shall  obey  the  commands  of  wisdom ;  rise 
and  fall  as  the  means  of  subsistence  expand  or  contract ;  and 
only  contribute  an  impulse  to  the  universal  harmony. 

Tiic  persons  of  Mr.  Godwin's  romances — stranger  still — 
are  the  naked  creations  of  the  same  intellectual  power,  mar- 
velously  endowed  with  galvanic  life.     Though  with  happier 


212  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

symmetry,  they  are  as  much  made  out  of  chains  and  links  of 
reasoning,  as  the  monster  was  fashioned  hy  the  chemistry  of 
the  student,  in  the  celebrated  novel  of  his  gifted  daughter, 
Falkland,  and  Caleb  Williams,  are  the  mere  impersonations 
of  the  unbounded  love  of  reputation,  and  resistless  curiosity; 
these  ideas  are  developed  in  each  with  masterly  iteration — 
to  the  two  ideas  all  causes  give  way :  and  materials  are  sub- 
jected, often  of  remarkable  coarseness,  to  the  refinement  of 
the  conception.  Hazlitt  used  to  observe  of  these  two  charac- 
ters, that  the  manner  they  are  played  into  each  other,  was 
equal  to  any  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  Drama ;  and  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  opposition,  though  at  the  cost  of  probability, 
is  most  powerfully  maintained  ;  but  the  effect  is  partly  owing 
to  the  absence  of  all  extrinsic  interest  which  could  interfere 
with  the  main  purpose  ;  the  beatings  of  the  heart  become 
audible,  not  only  from  their  own  intensity,  but  from  the  deso- 
lation which  the  author  has  expanded  around  them.  The 
consistency  in  each  is  that  of  an  idea,  not  of  a  character ; 
and  if  the  effect  of  form  and  color  is  produced,  it  is,  as  in 
line  engraving,  by  the  infinite  minuteness  and  delicacy  of  the 
single  strokes.  In  like  manner,  the  incidents  by  which  the 
author  seeks  to  exemplify  the  wrongs  inflicted  by  power  on 
goodness  in  civilized  society,  are  utterly  fantastical  ;  nothing 
can  be  more  minute,  nothing  more  unreal ;  the  youth  being 
involved  by  a  web  of  circumstances  woven  to  immesh  him, 
which  the  condition  of  society  that  the  author  intends  to  re- 
pudiate, renders  impossible  ;  and  which,  if  true,  would  prove 
not  that  the  framework  of  law  is  tyrannous,  but  tliat  the  will 
of  a  single  oppressor  may  elude  it.  The  subject  of  "  St. 
Leon"  is  more  congenial  to  the  author's  power ;  but  it  is  in 
like  manner,  a  logical  development  of  the  consequences  of 
a  being  prolonged  on  earth  through  ages ;  and,  as  the  dismal 
vista  expands,  the  skeleton  speculators  crowd  in  to  mock  and 
sadden  us ! 

Mr.  Godwin  was  thus  a  man  of  two  beings,  which  held 
little  discourse  with  each  other — the  daring  inventor  of 
theories  constructed  of  air-drawn  diagrams,  and  the  simple 
gentleman,  who  suffered  nothing  to  disturb  or  excite  him  be- 
yond his  study.  He  loved  to  walk  in  the  crowded  streets  of 
London,  not  like  Lamb,  enjoying  the  infinite  varieties  of 
manv-colorcd  life   around   him,  but  because   he  felt,  amidst 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  213 


the  noise,  and  crowd,  and  glare,  more  intensely  the  imper- 
turbable stillness  of  his  own  contemplations.  His  means  of 
comfortable  support  were  mainly  supplied  by  a  shop  in 
Skinner  Street,  where,  under  the  auspices  of"  M.  J.  Godwin 
&  Co.,"  the  prettiest  and  wisest  books  for  children  issued, 
which  old-fashioned  parents  presented  to  tlieir  children,  with- 
out suspecting  tliat  the  graceful  lessons  of  piety  and  goodness 
which  charmed  away  the  selfishness  of  infancy,  were  pub- 
lished, and  sometimes  revised,  and  now  and  then  written,  by 
a  philosopher  whom  they  would  scarcely  venture  to  name  ! 
He  met  the  exigencies  which  the  vicissitudes  of  business 
sometimes  caused,  with  the  trusting  simplicity  which  marked 
his  course  ;  he  asked  his  friends  for  aid  without  scruple,  con- 
sidering that  their  means  were  justly  the  due  of  one  who 
toiled  in  thought  for  their  inward  life,  and  had  little  time  to 
provide  for  his  own  outward  existence,  and  took  their  excuses, 
when  offered,  without  doubt  or  ollence.  The  very  next  day 
after  I  had  been  honored  and  delighted  by  an  introduction  to 
him  at  Lamb's  chambers,  I  was  made  still  more  proud  and 
happy  by  his  appearance  at  my  own  on  such  an  errand — 
which  my  poverty,  not  my  will,  rendered  abortive.  After 
some  pleasant  chat  on  indifferent  matters,  he  carelessly  ob- 
served that  he  had  a  little  bill  for  150/.  due  on  the  morrow, 
which  he  had  forgotten  till  that  morning,  and  desired  the  loan 
of  the  necessary  amount  for  a  few  weeks.  At  first,  in  eager 
hope  of  being  able  thus  to  oblige  one  whom  I  regarded  with 
admiration  akin  to  awe,  I  began  to  consider  whether  it  was 
possible  for  me  to  raise  such  a  sum  ;  but  alas  !  a  moment's 
reflection  sufficed  to  convince  me  that  the  hope  was  vain,  and 
I  was  obliged,  with  much  confusion,  to  assure  my  distin- 
guished visitor  how  glad  I  should  have  been  to  serve  him, 
but  that  I  was  only  just  starting  as  a  special  pleader,  was  ob- 
liged to  write  for  magazines  to  help  me  on,  and  had  not 
such  a  sum  in  the  world.  "  Oh  dear,"  said  the  philosopher, 
"  I  thought  you  were  a  young  gentleman  of  fortune — don't 
mention  it — don't  mention  it ;  I  shall  do  very  well  elsewhere  :" 
— and  then,  in  the  most  gracious  manner,  reverted  to  our 
former  topics,  and  sat  in  my  small  room  for  half  an  hour,  as 
if  to  convince  me  that  my  want  of  fortune  made  no  difference 
in  his  esteem.  A  slender  tribute  to  the  literature  he  had 
loved  and  served  so  well,  was  accorded  to  him  in  the  old  age 


214  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

to  which  he  attained,  by  the  gift  of  a  sinecure  in  the  Exche- 
quer, of  about  200/.  a  year,  connected  with  the  custody  of 
the  Records ;  and  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  heaving  an 
immense  key  to  unlock  the  musty  ti'easures  of  which  he  was 
guardian — how  unlike  those  he  had  unlocked,  with  finer  tal- 
isman, for  the  astonishment  and  alarm  of  one  generation,  and 
the  delight  of  all  others  ! 

John  Thelwall,  who  had  once  exulted  in  the  appellation 
of  Citizen  Thelwall,  having  been  associated  with  Coleridge 
and  Southey  in  their  days  of  enthusiastical  dreaming,  though 
a  more  precise  and  practical  reformer  than  either,  was 
introduced  by  them  to  Lamb,  and  was  welcomed  to  his  cir- 
cle,  in  the  true  Catholicism  of  its  spirit,  althougli  its  master 
cared  nothing  for  the  Roman  virtue  which  Thelwall  devot- 
edly cherished,  and  which  Home  Tooke  kept  in  uncertain 
vibration  between  a  rebellion  and  a  hoax.  Lamb  justly  es- 
teemed Thelwall  as  a  thoroughly  honest  man  ; — not  honest 
merely  in  reference  to  the  moral  relations  of  life,  but  to  the 
processes  of  thought  ;  one  whose  mind,  acute  and  vigorous, 
but  narrow,  perceived  only  the  object  directly  before  it,  and, 
undisturbed  by  collateral  circumstances,  reflected  with  literal 
fidelity,  the  impression  it  received,  and  maintained  it  as 
sturdily  against  the  beauty  that  might  soften  it,  or  the  wis- 
dom that  might  mould  it,  as  against  the  tyranny  that  would 
stifle  its  expression.  "  If  to  be  honest  as  the  world  goes,  is 
to  be  one  man  picked  out  of  ten  thousand,"  to  be  honest  as 
the  mind  works  is  to  be  one  man  of  a  million  ;  and  such  a 
man  was  Thelwall.  Starting  with  imperfect  education  from 
the  thraldom  of  domestic  oppression,  with  slender  knowledge, 
but  with  fiery  zeal,  into  the  dangers  of  political  enterprise, 
and  treading  fearlessly  on  the  verge  of  sedition,  he  saw 
nothing  before  him  but  powers  which  he  assumed  to  be  des- 
potism and  vice,  and  rushed  headlong  to  crush  them.  The 
point  of  time — ^just  that  when  the  accumulated  force  of  public 
opinion  had  obtained  a  virtual  mastery  over  the  accumulat- 
ed corruptions  of  ages,  but  when  power,  still  unconvinc  d  of 
its  danger,  presented  its  boldest  front  to  opposing  intellect,  or 
strove  to  crush  it  in  the  cruelty  of  awakened  fear — gave  scope 
for  the  ardent  temperament  of  an  orator  almost  as  poor  in 
scholastic  cultivation  as  in  external  fortune,  but  strong  in  in- 
tegrity and  rich  in  burning  words. 


JOHN    THELWALL.  215 


Thus  passionate,  Thelwall  spoke  boldly  and  vehemently 
— at  a  time  when  indignation  was  thought  to  be  virtue;  but 
there  is  no  reason  to  believe  he  ever  meditated  any  treason 
except  that  accumulated  in  the  architectural  sophistry  of 
Lord  Eldon,  by  which  he  proved  a  person  who  desired  to 
awe  the  Government  into  a  change  of  policy  to  be  guilty  of 
compassing  the  king's  death — as  thus  ; — that  the  king  must 
resist  the  proposed  alteration  in  his  measures — that  resisting 
he  must  be  deposed — and  that  being  deposed  jie  must  neces- 
sarily die ; — though  his  boldness  of  speech  placed  him  in 
jeopardy  even  after  the  acquittals  of  his  simple-minded  asso- 
ciate Hardy,  and  his  enigmatical  instructor  Tooke,  who  for- 
sook him,  and  left  him,  when  acquitted,  to  the  mercy  of  the 
world.  His  life,  which  before  this  event  had  been  one  of 
self-denial  and  purity  remarkable  in  a  young  man  who  had 
imbibed  the  impulses  of  revolutionary  France,  partook  of 
considerable  vicissitude.  At  one  time,  he  was  raised  by  his 
skill  in  correcting  impediments  of  speech,  and  teaching  elo- 
cution as  a  science,  into  elegant  competence — at  other  times 
saddened  by  the  difficulties  of  poorly-requited  literary  toil  and 
wholly  unrequited  patriotism  ;  but  lie  preserved  his  integrity 
and  his  cheerfulness — "  a  man  of  hope  and  forward-looking 
mind  even  to  the  last."  Unlike  Godwin,  whose  profound 
thoughts  slowly  struggled  into  form,  and  seldom  found  utter- 
ance in  conversation, — speech  was,  in  him,  all  in  all,  his  de- 
light, his  profession,  his  triumph,  with  little  else  than  passion 
to  inspire  or  color  it.  The  flaming  orations  of  his  "  Tribune," 
rendered  more  piquant  by  the  transparent  masquerade  of  an- 
cient history,  which,  in  his  youth,  "  touched  monied  world- 
lings with  dismay,"  and  infected  the  poor  with  dangerous 
anger,  seemed  vapid,  spiritless,  and  shallow  when  addressed 
through  the  press  to  the  leisure  of  the  thoughtful.  The  light 
which  glowed  with  so  formidable  a  lustre  before  the  evening 
audience,  vanished  on  closer  examination,  and  proved  to  be 
.only  a  harmless  phantom-vapor,  which  left  no  traces  of  de- 
structive energy  behind  it. 

Thelwall,  in  person  small,  compact,  muscular — with  a 
head  denoting  indomitable  resolution,  and  features  deeply 
furrowed  by  the  ardent  workings  of  the  mind, — was  as  ener- 
getic in  all  his  pursuits  and  enjoyments  as  in  political  action. 
He  was  earnestly  devoted  to  the  Drama,  and  enjoyed  its 


216  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

greatest  representations  with  the  freshness  of  a  boy  who  sees 
a  play  f^r  the  first  time.  He  hailed  the  kindred  energy  of  Kean 
with  enthusiastic  praise  :  but  abjuring  the  narrowness  of  his 
political  vision  in  matters  of  taste,  did  justice  to  the  nobler 
qualities  of  Mrs.  Siddons  and  her  brothers.  In  literature  and 
art,  also,  he  relaxed  the  bigotry  of  liis  liberal  intolerance, 
and  expatiated  in  their  wider  fields  with  a  taste  more  catho- 
lic. Here  Lamb  was  ready  with  his  sympathy,  which  in- 
deed even  the  political  zeal,  that  he  did  not  share,  was  too 
hearted  to  repel.  Although  generally  detesting  lectures  on 
literature  as  superficial  and  vapid  substitutes  for  quiet  read- 
ing, and  recitations  as  unreal  mockeries  of  the  true  Drama, 
he  sometimes  attended  the  entertainments  composed  of  both, 
which  Thelwall,  in  the  palmy  days  of  his  prosperity,  gave  at 
his  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  not  on  politics,  which  he 
had  then  forsaken  for  elocutionary  science,  though  maintain- 
ing the  principles  of  his  youth,  but  partly  on  elocution,  and 
partly  on  poetry  and  acting,  into  which  he  infused  the  fiery 
enthusiasm  of  his  nature.  Sometimes,  indeed,  his  fervor 
animated  his  disquisitions  on  the  philosophy  of  speech  with 
greater  warmth  than  he  reserved  for  more  attractive  themes ; 
the  melted  vowels  were  blended  into  a  rainbow,  or  dispersed 
like  fleecy  clouds ;  and  the  theory  of  language  was  made 
interesting  by  the  honesty  and  vigor  of  the  speaker.  Like 
all  men  who  have  been  chiefly  self-taught,  he  sometimes  pre- 
sented common-places  as  original  discoveries,  with  an  air 
which  strangers  mistook  for  quackery ;  but  they  were  un- 
just ;  to  the  speaker  these  were  the  product  of  his  own  medi- 
tation, though  familiar  to  many,  and  not  rarely  possessed  the 
charm  of  originality  in  their  freshness.  Lamb,  at  least,  felt 
that  it  was  good,  among  other  companions  of  far  richer  and 
more  comprehensive  intelligence,  to  have  one  friend  who  was 
undisturbed  by  misgiving  either  for  himself  or  his  cause ; 
who  enunciated  wild  paradox  and  worn-out  common-place 
with  equal  confidence  ;  and  who  was  ready  to  sacrifice  ease, 
fortune,  fame — every  thing  but  speech,  and,  if  it  had  been 
possible,  even  thai — to  the  cause  of  truth  or  friendship. 

WiLLiAm  Hazlitt  was,  for  many  years,  one  of  the  bright- 
est and  most  constant  ornaments  of  Lamb's  parties  ;  linked 
to  him  in  the  firm  bond  of  intellectual  friendship — which  re- 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  217 


mained  unshaken  in  spite  of  some  superficial  differences, 
"  short  and  far  between,"  arising  from  Lamb's  insensibility 
to  Hazlitt's  political  animosities  and  his  adherence  to  Southey, 
Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  who  shared  tliem.  Hazlitt  in 
his  boyhood  had  derived  from  his  father  that  attachment  to 
abstract  truth  for  its  own  sake,  and  tliat  inflexible  determina- 
tion to  ciicrish  it,  which  naturally  predominated  in  the  being 
of  the  minister  of  a  small  rural  congregation,  who  cherished 
religious  opinions  adverse  to  those  of  the  great  iaody  of  his 
countrymen,  and  waged  a  spiritual  warfare  throughout  his 
peaceful  course.  Thus  disciplined,  he  was  introduced  to  the 
friendsiiip  of  youthful  poets,  in  whom  the  dawn  of  the  French 
Revolution  had  enkindled  hope,  and  passion,  and  opinions 
tinctured  with  hope  and  passion,  which  he  eagerly  embraced  ; 
and  when  changes  passed  over  the  prospects  of  mankind, 
which  induced  them,  in  maturer  years,  to  modify  the  doc- 
trines they  had  taught,  he  resented  these  defections  almost  as 
personal  wrongs,  and,  when  his  pen  found  scope,  and  his 
tongue  utterance,  wrote  and  spoke  of  them  with  such  bitter- 
ness as  can  only  spring  from  the  depths  of  old  affection.  No 
writer,  however,  except  Wilson,  did  such  noble  justice  to  the 
poetry  of  Wordsworth,  when  most  despised,  and  to  the  genius 
of  Coleridge,  when  most  obscured  ;  he  cherished  a  true  ad- 
miration for  each  in  "  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind,"  and  de- 
fended them  with  dogged  r<?solution  against  the  scorns  and 
slights  of  the  world.  StiU  the  superficial  dilFerence  was,  or 
seemed,  too  wide  to  admit  of  personal  intercourse ;  and  I  do 
not  think  that  during  the  many  years  wliich  elapsed  between 
my  introduction  to  Lamb  and  Hazlitt's  death,  he  ever  met 
either  of  the  poets  at  the  rooms  of  the  man  they  united  in 
loving. 

Although  Mr.  Hazlht  was  thus  stauncii  in  his  attachment 
to  principles  which  he  reverenced  as  true,  he  was  by  no 
means  rigid  in  his  mode  of  maintaining  and  illustrating  them  ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  frequently  diminished  the  immediate 
effect  of  his  reasonings  by  the  prodigality  and  richness  of  the 
allusions  with  which  he  embossed  them.  He  had  as  un- 
quenchable a  desire  for  truth  as  others  have  for  wealth,  or 
power,  or  fame ;  he  pursued  it  with  sturdy  singleness  of  pur- 
pose ;  and  enunciated  it  without  favor  or  fear.  But,  besides 
the  love  of  truth,  that  sincerity  in  pursuing  it,  and  that  bold- 
10 


218  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAIttB. 

ness  in  telling  it,  he  had  also  a  fervent  aspiration  after  the 
beautiful  ;  a  vivid  sense  of  pleasure,  and  an  intense  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  individual  being,  which  sometimes  pro- 
duced obstacles  to  the  current  of  speculation,  by  which  it 
was  broken  into  dazzling  eddies  or  urged  into  devious  wind- 
ings. Acute,  fervid,  vigorous,  as  his  mind  was,  it  wanted 
the  one  great  central  power  of  imagination,  which  brings  all 
the  other  faculties  into  harmonious  action  ;  multiplies  them 
into  each  other ;  makes  truth  visible  in  the  forms  of  beauty, 
and  substitutes  intellectual  vision  for  proof  Thus,  in  him, 
truth  and  beauty  held  divided  etnpire.  In  him  the  spirit  was 
willing,  but  the  flesh  was  strong  ;  and,  when  these  contend, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  anticipate  the  result ;  "  for  the  power  of 
beauty  shall  sooner  transform  honesty  from  what  it  is  into  a 
bawd,  than  the  person  of  honesty  shall  transform  beauty  into 
its  likeness."  This  "  sometime  paradox"  was  vividly  ex- 
emplified in  Hazlitt's  personal  history,  his  conversation,  and 
his  writings.  To  the  solitudes  of  the  country  in  which  he 
mused  on  "  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,"  a  tem- 
perament of  unusual  ardor  had  given  an  intense  interest,  akin 
to  that  with  which  Rosseau  has  animated  and  oppressed  the 
details  of  his  early  years. 

He  had  not  then,  nor  did  he  find  till  long  afterwards, 
power  to  embody  his  meditations  and  feelings  in  words.  The 
consciousness  of  thoughts  which  he  could  not  hope  adequately 
to  express,  increased  his  natural  reserve,  and  he  turned  for 
relief  to  the  art  of  painting,  in  which  he  might  silently  re- 
alize his  dreams  of  beauty,  and  repay  the  loveliness  of  na- 
ture by  fixing  some  of  its  fleeting  aspects  in  immortal  tints. 
A  few  old  prints  from  the  old  masters  awakened  the  spirit  of 
emulation  within  him  ;  the  sense  of  beauty  became  identified 
in  his  mind  with  that  of  glory  and  duration  ;  while  the 
peaceful  labor  he  enjoyed  calmed  the  tumult  in  his  veins, 
and  gave  steadiness  to  his  pure  and  distant  aim.  He  pur- 
sued the  art  with  an  earnestness  and  patience  which  he 
vividly  describes  in  his  essay,  "  On  the  Pleasure  of  Paint- 
ing;" and  to  which  he  frequently  reverted  in  the  happiest 
moods  of  his  conversation  ;  and,  although  in  this,  his  chosen 
pursuit,  he  failed,  the  passionate  desire  for  success,  and  the 
long  struggle  to  attain  it,  left  deep  traces  in  his  mind,  height- 
ening his  keen  perception  of  external  things,  and  mingling 


WILLIAM    IIAZLITT.  219 


with  all  his  speculations  airy  shapes  and  hues  which  he  had 
vainly  striven  to  transfer  to  canvas.  A  painter  may  acquire 
a  iine  insight  into  the  nice  distinctions  of  character, — he  may 
copy  manners  in  words  as  he  docs  in  colors, — hut  it  may  be 
apprehended  that  his  course  as  a  severe  rcasoner  will  be 
somewhat  "troubled  with  thick  cominjr  fancies."  And  if 
the  successful  pursuit  of  art  may  thus  disturb  the  process  of 
abstract  contemplation,  how  much  more  may  an  unsatisfied 
ambition  ruflle  it ;  bid  the  dark  threads  of  thought  glitter 
with  radiant  fancies  unrealized,  and  clothe  the  diagrams  of 
speculation  with  the  fragments  of  picture  which  the  mind 
cherishes  the  more  fondly,  because  the  hand  refused  to  real- 
ize ?  What  wonder,  if,  in  the  mind  of  an  ardent  youth,  thus 
struggling  in  vain  to  give  palpable  existence  to  the  shapes  of 
loveliness  which  haunted  him,  "  the  homely  beauty  of  the 
good  old  cause"  should  assume  the  fascinations  not  properly 
its  own  ? 

This  association  of  beauty  with  reason  diminished  the 
immediate  effect  of  Mr.  Hazlitt's  political  essays,  while  it 
enhanced  their  permanent  value.  It  was  the  fashion,  in  his 
life-time,  to  denounce  him  as  a  sour  Jacobin;  but  no  descrip- 
tion could  be  more  unjust.  Under  the  influence  of  some 
bitter  feeling,  or  some  wayward  fancy,  he  occasionally 
poured  out  a  furious  invective  against  those  whom  he  re- 
garded as  the  enemies  of  liberty,  or  as  apostates  from  her 
cause;  but,  in  general,  the  force  of  his  expostulation,  or  his 
reasoning,  was  diverted  (unconsciously  to  himself)  by  figures 
and  phantasies,  by  fine  and  quaint  allusions,  by  quotations 
from  his  favorite  authors,  introduced  with  singular  felicity,  as 
respects  the  direct  link  of  association,  but  tending,  by  their 
very  beauty,  to  unnerve  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and  substi- 
tute the  sense  of  luxury  for  clear  conviction,  or  noble  anger. 
In  some  of  his  essays,  when  the  reasoning  is  most  cogent, 
every  other  sentence  contains  some  exquisite  passage  from 
Shakspeare,  or  Fletcher,  or  Wordsworth,  trailing  after  it  a 
line  of  golden  associations  ;  or  some  reference  to  a  novel, 
over  which  we  have  a  thousand  times  forgotten  the  wrongs 
of  mankind  ;  till,  in  the  recurring  shocks  of  pleasurable  sur- 
prise, the  main  argument  is  forgotten.  When,  for  example, 
he  compares  the  position  of  certain  political  waverers  to  that 
of  Clarissa  Harlowe  confronting  the  ravisher  who  would  re- 


220  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

peat  his  outrage,  with  the  penknife  pointed  to  her  breast,  and 
her  eyes  uplifted  to  Heaven,  and  describes  them  as  having 
been,  like  her,  trepanned  into  a  house  of  ill -fame,  near  Pall 
Mall,  and  there  defending  their  soiled  virtue  with  their  pen- 
knives ;  what  reader,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  stupendous 
scene  which  the  allusion  directly  revives,  can  think  or  care 
about  the  renegade  of  yesterday  ?  Here,  again,  is  felt  the 
want  of  that  Imagination  which  brings  all  things  into  one, 
tinges  all  our  thoughts  and  sympathies  with  one  hue,  and  re- 
jects every  ornament  which  does  not  heighten  or  prolong  the 
feeling  which  it  seeks  to  embody. 

Even  when  he  retaliates  on  Southey  for  attacking  his  old 
co-patriots,  the  poetical  associations  which  bitter  remem- 
bi'ance  suggests,  almost  neutralize  the  vituperation ;  he 
brings  every  "  flower  which  sad  embroidery  wears  to  strew 
the  laureate  hearse,"  where  ancient  regards  are  interred  ; 
and  merges  all  the  censure  of  the  changed  politician  in  praise 
of  the  simple  dignity,  and  the  generous  labors  of  a  singularly 
noble  and  unsullied  life.  So  little  does  he  regard  the  unity 
of  sentiment  in  his  compositions,  that  in  his  "  Letter  to  Gif- 
ford,"  after  a  series  of  just  and  bitter  retorts  on  his  maligner 
as  "  the  fine  link  which  connects  literature  with  the  police," 
he  takes  a  fancy  to  teach  that  "  ultra-ci'epidarian  critic"  his 
own  theory  of  the  natural  disinterestedness  of  the  human 
mind,  and  develops  it,  not  in  the  dry,  hard,  mathematical 
style  in  which  it  was  first  enunciated,  but  "  o'er  informed" 
with  the  glow  of  sentiment,  and  terminating  in  an  eloquent 
rhapsody.  This  latter  portion  of  the  letter  is  one  of  the 
noblest  of  its  efiusions,  but  it  entirely  destroys  the  first  in 
the  mind  of  the  reader ;  for  who,  when  thus  contemplating 
the  living  wheels  on  which  human  benevolence  is  borne  on- 
wards in  its  triumphant  career,  and  the  spirit  with  which 
they  are  instinct,  can  think  of  the  literary  wasp  which  had 
settled  for  a  moment  upon  them,  and  who  had  just  before 
been  mercilessly  transfixed  with  minikin   arrows  ? 

But  the  most  signal  example  of  the  influences  which 
"  the  shows  of  things"  exercised  over  Mr.  Hazlitt's  mind 
was  his  setting  up  the  Emperor  Napoleon  as  his  idol.  He 
strove  to  justify  this  predilection  to  himself  by  referring  it 
to  the  revolutionary  origin  of  his  hero,  and  the  contempt  with 
which    he   trampled  upon    the   claims   of  legitimacy,   and 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  221 


humbled  the  pride  of  kings.  But  if  his  "  only  love"  thus 
sprung  "  from  his  only  hate,"  it  was  not  cherished  in  its  blos- 
som by  antipathies.  If  there  had  been  nothing  in  his  mind 
which  tended  to  aggrandizement  and  glory,  and  which  would 
fain  reconcile  the  principles  of  freedom  with  the  lavish  accu- 
mulation of  power,  lie  might  have  desired  the  triumph  of 
young  tyranny  over  legitimate  thrones  ;  but  he  would  scarce- 
ly have  watclied  its  progress  and  its  fall  "  like  a  lover  and  a 
child."  His  feeling  for  Bonaparte  in  exile  was  not  a  senti- 
ment of  respect  for  fallen  greatness ;  not  a  desire  to  trace 
"  the  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil ;"  not  a  loathing  of  the 
treatment  the  Emperor  received  from  "  his  cousin  kings"  in 
the  day  of  adversity ;  but  entire  affection  mingling  with  the 
current  of  the  blood,  and  pervading  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual being.  Nothing  less  than  this  strong  attachment,  at 
once  personal  and  refined,  would  have  enabled  him  to  en- 
counter the  toil  of  collecting  and  arranging  fiicts  and  dates 
for  four  volumes  of  narrative,  which  constitute  his  Life  of 
Napoleon  ; — a  drudgery  too  abhorrent  to  his  habits  of  mind 
as  a  thinker,  to  be  sustained  by  any  stimulus  which  the  pros- 
pect of  remuneration  or  the  hope  of  applause  could  supply. 
It  is  not  so  much  in  the  ingenious  excuses  which  he  discovers 
for  the  worst  acts  of  his  hero — offered  even  for  the  midnight 
execution  of  the  Duke  d'Enghein  and  the  invasion  of  Spain 
— that  the  stamp  of  personal  devotion  is  obvious,  as  in  the 
graphic  force  with  which  he  has  delineated  the  short-lived 
splendors  of  the  Imperial  Court,  and  "  the  trivial  fond 
records"  he  has  gathered  of  every  vestige  of  human  feeling 
by  which  he  could  reconcile  the  Imperial  Cynic  to  the  species 
he  scorned.  The  first  two  volumes  of  his  work,  although 
redeemed  by  scattered  thoughts  of  true  originality  and  depth, 
are  often  confused  and  spiritless  ;  the  characters  of  the  prin- 
cipal revolutionists  are  drawn  too  much  in  the  style  of  awk- 
ward, sprawling  caricatures;  but  when  the  hero  casts  all  his 
rivals  into  the  distance,  erects  himself  the  individual  enemy 
of  England,  consecrates  his  power  by  religious  ceremonies, 
and  defines  it  by  the  circle  of  a  crown,  the  author's  strength 
becomes  concentrated  ;  his  narrative  assumes  an  epic  dignity 
and  fervor;  dallies  with  the  flowers  of  usurped  prerogative, 
and  glows  with  "  the  long-resounding  march  and  energy  di- 
vine."    How  happy  and  proud  is  he  to  picture  the  meeting 


222  FINAL    BIEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

of  the  Emperor  with  the  Pope,  and  the  grandeurs  of  the  co- 
ronation !  How  he  grows  wanton  in  celebrating  the  fetes  of 
the  Tuileries,  as  "  presenting  all  the  elegance  of  enchanted 
pageants,"  and  laments  them  as  "  gone  like  a  foiry  revel !" 
How  he  "  lives  along  the  line"  of  Austerlitz,  and  rejoices  in 
its  thunder,  and  hails  its  setting  sun,  and  exults  in  the  minu- 
test details  of  the  subsequent  meeting  of  the  conquered 
sovereigns  at  the  feet  of  the  conqueror  !  How  he  expatiates 
on  the  fatal  marriage  with  "  the  deadly  Austrian,"  (as  Mr. 
Cobbett  justly  called  Maria  Louisa,)  as  though  it  were  a 
chapter  i  romance,  and  sheds  the  grace  of  beauty  on  the 
imperial  picture  !  How  he  kindles  with  martial  ardor  as 
he  describes  the  preparations  against  Russia  ;  musters  the 
myriads  of  barbarians  with  a  show  of  dramatic  justice  ;  and 
fondly  lingers  among  the  brief  triumphs  of  Moskowa  on  the 
verge  of  the  terrible  catastrophe  !  The  narrative  of  that  dis- 
astrous expedition  is,  indeed,  written  with  a  master's  hand  ; 
we  see  the  "  grand  army"  marching  to  its  destruction  through 
the  immense  perspective  ;  the  wild  hordes  flying  before  the 
terror  of  its  "coming;"  the  barbaric  magnificence  ol  Mos- 
cow towering  in  the  remote  distance ;  and  when  we  gaze 
upon  the  sacrificial  conflagration  of  the  Kremlin,  we  feel 
that  it  is  worthy  to  become  the  funeral  pile  of  the  conqueror's 
glories.  It  is  well  for  the  readers  of  this  splendid  work, 
that  there  is  more  in  it  of  the  painter  than  of  the  metaphysi- 
cian ;  that  its  style  glows  with  the  fervor  of  battle,  or  stiffens 
with  the  spoils  of  victory  ;  yet  we  wonder  that  this  monu- 
ment to  imperial  grandeur  should  be  raised  from  the  dead 
level  of  jacobinism  by  an  honest  and  profound  thinker.  The 
solution  is,  that  altiiough  he  was  this,  he  was  also  more — 
that,  in  opinion,  he  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  people  ; 
but  that,  in  feeling,  he  required  some  individual  object  of 
worship  ;  that  he  selected  Napoleon  as  one  in  whose  origin 
and  career  he  might  at  once  impersonate  his  principles  and 
gratify  his  affections;  and  that  he  adhered  to  his  own  idea 
with  heroic  obstinacy,  when  the  "  child  and  champion  of  the 
Republic"  openly  sought  to  repress  all  feeling  and  thought, 
but  such  as  he  could  cast  in  his  own  iron  moulds,  and  scoffed 
at  popular  enthusiasm  even  while  it  bore  him  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  liis  loftiest  desires. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  had  little  inclination  to  talk  or  write  about 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  223 


contemporary  authors,  and  still  less  to  read  them.  He  was 
with  dilliculty  persuaded  to  look  into  the  Scotcli  novels,  but 
when  he  did  so,  he  found  tliem  old  in  substance  though  new 
in  form,  read  them  with  as  much  avidity  as  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  expressed  better  than  any  one  else  what  all  the 
world  felt  about  them.  His  hearty  love  of  them,  however, 
did  not  diminish,  but  aggravate  his  dislike  of  the. political 
opinions  so  zealously  and  consistently  maintained,  of  their 
great  author ;  and  yet  the  strength  of  his  hatred  towards 
that  which  was  accidental  and  transitory  only  set  off  the 
unabated  power  of  his  regard  for  the  great  and  the  lasting. 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  were  not  moderns  to  him,  for  they 
were  the  inspirers  of  his  youth,  which  was  his  own  antiquity, 
and  the  feelings  which  were  the  germ  of  their  poetry  had 
sunk  deep  into  his  heart.  With  the  exception  of  the  works 
of  these,  and  of  his  friends  Barry  Cornwall  and  Sheridan 
Knowles,  in  whose  successes  he  rejoiced,  he  held  modern 
literature  in  slight  esteem,  and  regarded  the  discoveries  of 
science  and  the  visions  of  optimism  with  an  undazzled  eye. 
His  "  large  discourse  of  reason "  looked  not  before,  but 
after.  He  felt  it  a  sacred  duty,  as  a  lover  of  genius  and  art, 
to  defend  the  fame  of  the  mighty  dead.  When  the  old 
painters  were  assailed  in  "  The  Catalogue  Raisonnce  of  the 
British  Institution,"  he  was  "touched  with  noble  anger."  All 
his  own  vain  longings  after  the  immortality  of  the  works 
which  were  libelled  ; — all  the  tranquillity  and  beauty  they 
had  shed  into  his  soul, — all  his  comjjrehension  of  the  sym- 
pathy and  delight  of  thousands,  which,  accumulating  through 
long  time,  had  attested  their  worth — were  fused  together  to 
dazzle  and  to  subdue  the  daring  critic  who  would  disturb  the 
judgment  of  ages.  So,  when  a  popular  poet  assailed  the  fame 
of  Rousseau,  seeking  to  reverse  the  decision  of  posterity  on 
what  that  great  though  unhappy  writer  had  achieved  by  sug- 
gesting the  opinion  of  people  of  condition  in  his  neighborhood 
on  the  figure  he  made  to  their  apprehensions  while  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Madame  de  Warrens,  he  vindicated  the  prerogatives 
of  genius  with  the  true  logic  of  passion.  Few  things  irri- 
tated him  more  than  the  claims  set  up  for  the  present  genera- 
tion to  be  wiser  and  better  than  those  which  had  gone  before 
it.  He  had  no  power  of  imagination  to  embrace  tlie  golden 
clouds  which  hung  over  the  Future,  but  he  rested  and  expa- 


224  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

tiated  in  the  Past.  To  his  apprehension  human  good  did  not 
appear  a  slender  shoot  of  yesterday,  like  the  bean-stalk  in 
the  fairy  tale,  aspiring  to  the  skies,  and  leading  to  an  en- 
chanted castle,  but  a  huge  growth  of  intertwisted  fibres, 
grasping  the  earth  by  numberless  roots  of  custom,  habit,  and 
affection,  and  bearing  vestiges  of  "a  thousand  storms,'|  a 
thousand  thunders." 

When  I  first  met  Hazlitt,  in  the  year  1815,  he  was  stag- 
gering under  the  blow  of  Waterloo.  The  re-appearance  of 
iiis  imperial  idol  on  the  coast  of  France,  and  his  triumphant 
march  to  Paris,  like  a  fairy  vision,  had  excited  his  admira- 
tion and  sympathy  to  the  utmost  pitch ;  and  though  in  many 
respects  sturdily  English  in  feeling,  he  could  scarcely  for- 
give the  valor  of  the  conquerors  ;  and  bitterly  resented  the 
captivity  of  the  Emperor  in  St.  Helena,  which  followed  it, 
as  if  he  had  sustained  a  personal  wrong.  On  this  subject 
only,  he  was  "  eaten  up  with  passion  ;"  on  all  others,  he  was 
the  fairest,  the  most  candid  of  reasoners.  His  countenance 
was  then  handsome,  but  marked  by  a  painful  expi'ession  ;  his 
black  hair,  which  had  curled  stifly  over  his  temples,  had 
scarcely  received  its  first  tints  of  gray  ;  his  gait  was  awk- 
ward ;  his  dress  was  neglected  ;  and,  in  the  company  of 
strangers,  his  bashfulness  was  almost  painful — but,  when,  in 
the  society  of  Lamb  and  one  or  two  others,  he  talked  on  his 
favorite  themes  of  old  English  books,  or  old  Italian  pictures, 
no  one's  conversation  could  be  more  delightful.  The  poets, 
from  intercourse  with  whom  he  had  drawn  so  much  of  his 
taste,  and  who  had  contributed  to  shed  the  noble  infection  of 
beauty  through  his  reasoning  faculties,  had  scarcely  the  op- 
portunity of  appreciating  their  progress.  It  was,  in  after 
years,  by  the  fireside  of  "  the  Lambs,"  that  his  tongue  was 
gradually  loosened,  and  his  passionate  thoughts  found  appro- 
priate words.  There,  his  struggles  to  express  the  fine  con- 
ceptions with  which  his  mind  was  filled,  were  encouraged  by 
entire  sympathy ;  there  he  began  to  stammer  out  his  just 
and  original  conceptions  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  and  other 
English  poets  and  prose  writers,  more  talked  of,  though  not 
better  known,  by  their  countrymen  ;  there  he  wastlioroughly 
understood,  and  dexterously  cheered  by  Miss  Lamb,  whose 
nice  discernment  of  his  first  efforts  in  conversation,  were 
dwelt  upon  by  him  with  affectionate  gratitude,  even  when 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  225 


most  out  of  Iiumor  with  the  world.  When  he  mastered 
his  diffidence,  he  did  not  talk  for  effect,  to  dazzle,  or  surprise, 
or  annoy,  but,  with  the  most  simple  and  honest  desire  to 
make  his  views  of  the  subject  in  hand  entirely  apprehended 
by  his  hearer.  There  was  sometimes  an  obvious  struggle  to 
do  this  to  his  own  satisfaction  ;  he  seemed  laboring  to  drag 
his  thought  to  light  from  its  deep  lurking-place  ;  and,  with 
timid  distrust  of  that  power  of  expression  which  ho  had 
found  so  late  in  life,  he  often  betrayed  a  fear  lest  he  had 
failed  to  make  himself  understood,  and  recurred  to  the  subject 
again  and  again,  that  he  might  be  assured  he  had  succeeded. 
With  a  certain  doggedness  of  manner,  he  showed  nothing 
pragmatical  or  exclusive  ;  he  never  drove  a  principle  to  its  ut- 
most possible  consequences,  but,  like  Locksley,  "  allowed  for 
the  wind."  For  some  years  previous  to  his  death,  he  observed 
an  entire  abstinence  from  fermented  liquors,  which  he  had 
once  quaffed  with  the  proper  relish  he  had  for  all  the  good 
things  of  this  life,  but  which  he  courageously  resigned  when 
he  found  the  indulgence  perilous  to  his  health  and  faculties. 
The  cheerfulness  with  which  he  made  this  sacrifice,  was  one 
of  the  most  amiable  traits  of  his  character.  He  had  no  cen- 
sure  for  others,  who,  in  the  same  dangers,  were  less  wise  or 
less  resolute  ;  nor  did  he  think  he  had  earned,  by  his  own 
constancy,  any  right  to  intrude  advice  which  he  knew,  if 
wanted,  must  be  unavailing.  Nor  did  he  profess  to  be  a  con- 
vert to  the  general  system  of  abstinence,  which  was  advanced 
by  one  of  his  kindest  and  stanchcst  friends  ;  he  vowed  that 
he  yielded  to  necessity ;  and,  instead  of  avoiding  the  sight 
of  that  which  he  could  no  longer  taste,  he  was  seldom  so 
happy  as  Avhen  he  sat  with  friends  at  their  wine,  participa- 
ting the  sociality  of  the  time ;  and  renewing  his  own  past 
enjoyment  in  that  of  his  companions,  without  regret  and  with- 
out envy.  Like  Dr.  Johnson,  he  made  himself  poor  amends 
for  the  loss  of  wine  by  drinking  tea,  not  so  largely,  indeed, 
as  the  hero  of  Boswcll,  but  at  least  of  equal  potency  ;  for  he 
might  have  challenged  Mrs.  Thrale,  and  all  her  sex,  to  make 
stronger  tea  than  his  own.  In  society,  as  in  politics,  he  was 
no  flincher.  He  loved  "  to  hear  the  chimes  at  midnight," 
without  considering  them  as  a  summons  to  rise.  At  these 
seasons,  when  in  his  happiest  mood,  he  used  to  dwell  on  the 
conversational  powers  of  his  friends,  and  live  over  again  the 


226  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

delightful  hours  he  had  passed  with  them  ;  repeat  the  preg- 
nant puns  that  one  had  made ;  tell  over  again  a  story  with 
which  another  had  convulsed  the  room ;  or  expatiate  on  the 
eloquence  of  a  third  ;  always  best  pleased  when  he  could 
detect  some  talent  which  was  unregarded  by  the  world,  and 
giving  alike,  to  the  celebrated  and  the  unknown,  due 
honor. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  delivered  three  courses  of  lectures  at  the  Sur- 
rey Institution,  on  The  English  Poets  ;  on  The  English  Comic 
Writers;  and  on  The  Age  of  Elizabeth  ;  which  Lamb  (un- 
der protest  against  lectures  in  general)  regularly  attended, 
an  earnest  admirer,  amid  crowds  with  whom  the  lecturer 
had  "  an  imperfect  sympathy."  They  consisted  chiefly  of 
Dissenters,  who  agreed  with  him  in  his  hatred  of  Lord  Cas- 
tlereagh,  and  his  love  of  religious  freedom,  but  who  "  loved 
no  plays  ;"  of  Quakers,  who  approved  him  as  the  earnest  op- 
ponent of  slavery  and  capital  punishment,  but  who  "  heard 
no  music  ;"  of  citizens,  devoted  to  the  main  chance,  who  had 
a  hankering  after  "  the  improvement  of  the  mind;"  but  to 
whom  his  favorite  doctrine  of  its  natural  disinterestedness 
was  a  riddle  ;  of  a  few  enemies  who  came  to  sneer ;  and  a 
few  friends,  who  were  eager  to  learn,  and  to  admire.  The 
comparative  insensibility  of  the  bulk  of  his  audience  to  his 
finest  passages,  sometimes  provoked  him  to  awaken  their  at- 
tention by  points  which  broke  the  train  of  his  discourse ;  af- 
ter which,  he  could  make  himself  amends  by  some  abrupt 
paradox  which  might  set  their  prejudices  on  edge,  and  make 
them  fancy  they  were  shocked.  He  startled  many  of  them  at 
the  onset,  by  observing,  that,  since  Jacob's  dream,  "  the  hea- 
vens had  gone  farther  off,  and  became  astronomical ;  a  fine 
extravagance,  which  the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  had 
grown  astronomical  themselves  under  the  preceding  lecturer, 
felt  called  on  to  resent  as  an  attack  on  their  severer  studies. 
When  he  read  a  well-known  extract  from  Cowper,  compar- 
ing a  poor  cottager  with  Voltaire,  and  had  pronounced  the 
line:  "A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew;"  they 
broke  into  a  joyous  shout  of  self-gratulation,  that  they  were 
so  much  wiser  than  the  scornful  Frenchman.  When  he 
passed  by  Mrs.  Hannah  More  with  observing  that  "  she  had 
written  a  great  deal  which  he  had  never  read,"  a  voice  gave 
expression  to  the  general   commiseration  and  surprise,  by 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  227 


calling  out  "  More  pity  for  you  !"  They  were  confounded 
at  his  reading  with  more  emphasis,  perhaps,  than  discretion, 
Gay's  epigrammatic  lines  on  Sir  Richard  Blackstonc,  in 
which  scriptural  persons  arc  too  freely  hitched  into  rhyme ; 
but  he  went  doggedly  on  to  the  end,  and,  by  his  perseverance, 
baffled  those  who,  if  he  had  acknowledged  himself  wrong,  by 
stopping,  would  have  visited  him  with  an  outburst  of  displea- 
sure which  he  felt  to  be  gathering.  He  once  had  a  more  ed- 
ifying advantage  over  them.  He  was  enumerating  the  hu- 
manities which  endeared  Dr.  Johnson  to  his  mind,  and  at  the 
close  of  an  agreeable  catalogue,  mentioned,  as  last  and  noblest, 
"  his  carrying  the  poor  victim  of  disease  and  dissipation  on 
his  back,  through  Fleet  Street,"  at  which  a  titter  arose  from 
some,  who  were  struck  by  the  picture,  as  ludicrous,  and  a 
murmur  from  others,  who  deemed  the  allusion  unfit  for  ears 
polite :  he  paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  added,  in  his  stur- 
diest and  most  impressive  manner, — "  an  act  which  realizes 
the  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan  :"  at  which  his  moral  and 
his  delicate  hearers  shrunk,  rebuked,  into  deep  silence.  He 
was  not  eloquent,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term  ;  for  his 
thoughts  were  too  weighty  to  be  moved  along  by  the  shallow 
stream  of  feeling  which  an  evening's  excitement  can  rouse. 
He  wrote  all  his  lectures,  and  read  them  as  they  were  writ- 
ten ;  but  his  deep  voice  and  earnest  manner  suited  his  mat- 
ter well.  He  seemed  to  dig  into  his  subject,  and  not  in  vain. 
In  delivering  his  long  quotations,  he  had  scarcely  continuity 
enough  for  the  versification  of Shakspeare  and  Milton,  "with 
linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out ;"  but  he  gave  Pope's  bril- 
liant satire  and  delightful  compliments,  which  are  usually 
complete  within  tlie  couplet,  with  an  elegance  and  point 
which  the  poet  himself,  could  he  have  heard,  would  have  felt 
as  indicating  their  highest  praise. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  having  suffered,  for  many  years,  from  de- 
rangement of  the  digestive  organs,  for  which  perhaps  a  mode- 
rate use  of  fermented  liquors  would  have  been  preferable  to 
abstinence,  solaced  only  by  the  intense  tincture  of  tea,  in 
which  he  found  refuge,  worn  out  at  last,  died  on  18th  Sept., 
1830,  at  the  age  of  fifty-two.  Lamb  frequently  visited  him 
during  his  sufferings,  which  were  not,  as  has  been  erroneously 
suggested,  ajjcravated  bv  the  want  of  needful  comforts ;  for 
altiiough  his  careless  habits  had  left  no  provision  for  sickness, 


228  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

his  friends  gladly  acknowledged,  by  their  united  aid,  the 
deep  intellectual  obligations  due  to  the  great  thinker.  In  a 
moment  of  acute  pain,  when  the  needless  apprehension  for  the 
future  rushed  upon  him,  he  dictated  a  brief  and  peremptory 
letter  to  the  editor  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  requiring  a 
considerable  remittance,  to  which  he  had  no  claim  but  that 
of  former  remunerated  services,  which  the  friend,  who  obeyed 
his  bidding,  feared  might  excite  displeasure ;  but  he  mistook 
Francis  Jeftrey  ;  the  sum  demanded  was  received  by  return 
of  post,  with  the  most  anxious  wishes  for  Hazlitt's  recovery — 
just  too  late  for  him  to  understand  his  error.  Lamb  joined  a 
few  friends  in  attending  liis  funeral  in  the  churcb-yard  of 
St.  Anne's  Soho,  where  he  was  interred,  and  felt  his  loss — 
not  so  violently  at  the  time,  as  mournfully  in  the  frequent 
recurrence  of  the  sense  that  a  chief  source  of  intellectual 
pleasure  was  stopped.  His  personal  frailties  are  nothing  to 
us  now  ;  his  thoughts  survive  ;  in  them  we  have  his  better 
part  entire,  and  in  them  must  be  traced  his  true  history. 
The  real  events  of  his  life  are  not  to  be  traced  in  its  external 
changes;  as  his  engagement  by  the  Morning  Chronicle,  or 
his  transfer  of  his  services  to  the  Times,  or  his  introduction 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review  ;  but  in  the  progress  and  develop- 
ment of  his  fine  understanding  as  nurtui'ed  and  checked  and 
swayed  by  his  affections.  His  warfare  was  within ;  its 
spoils  are  ours  I 

One  of  the  soundest  and  most  elegant  scholars  whom  the 
school  of  Christ's  Hospital  ever  produced,  Mr.  Thomas 
Barnes,  was  a  frequent  guest  at  Lamb's  chambers  in  the 
Temple  ;  and  though  the  responsibilities  he  undertook,  before 
Lamb  quitted  that,  his  happiest  abode,  prevented  him  from 
visiting  often  at  Great  Russell  Street,  at  Islington,  or  Enfield, 
he  was  always  ready  to  assist,  by  the  kind  word  of  the  power- 
ful journal  in  which  he  became  most  potent,  the  expanding 
reputation  of  his  school-mate  and  friend.  After  establishing 
a  high  social  and  intellectual  character  at  Cambridge,  he  had 
entered  the  legal  profession  as  a  special  pleader,  but  was 
prevented  from  applying  the  needful  devotion  to  that  laborious 
pursuit,  by  violent  rheumatic  aflections,  which  he  solaced  by 
writing  critiques  and  essays  of  rare  merit.  So  shattered  did 
he  appear  in  health,  that  when  his  friends  learned  that  he  had 


THOMAS    BARNES.  229 


accepted  the  editorship  of  the  Times  newspaper,  they  almost 
shuddered  at  the  attempt  as  suicidal,  and  anticipated  a  speedy 
ruin  to  his  constitution  from  the  pressure  of  constant  labor  and 
anxiety,  on  the  least  healthful  hours  of  toil.  But  he  had 
judged  better  than  they  of  his  own  physical  and  intellectual 
resources,  and  the  mode  in  which  the  grave  responsibility  and 
constant  exertion  of  his  office  would  affect  both  ;  for  the 
regular  effort  consolidated  his  feverish  strength,  gave  even- 
ness and  tranquillity  to  a  life  of  serious  exertion,  and  sup- 
plied, for  many  years,  power  equal  to  the  perpetual  demand  ; 
affording  a  striking  example  how,  when  finely  attuned,  the 
mind  can  influence  the  body  to  its  uses.  The  facile  adapta- 
tion of  his  intellect  to  his  new  duties,  was  scarcely  less  re- 
markable than  the  mastery  it  achieved  over  his  desultory 
habits  and  physical  infirmities  ;  for,  until  then,  it  had  seemed 
more  refined  than  vigorous — more  elegant  than  weighty — too 
fastidious  to  endure  the  supervision  and  arrangement  of  in- 
numerable reports,  paragraphs,  and  essays ;  but,  while  a 
scholarly  grace  was  shed  by  him  through  all  he  wrote  or 
moulded,  the  needful  vigor  was  never  wanting  to  the  high 
office  of  superintending  the  great  daily  miracle ;  to  the  dis- 
cipline of  its  various  contributors  ;  or  to  the  composition  of 
articles  which  he  was  always  ready,  on  the  instant  of  emer- 
gency, to  supply. 

Mr.  Barnes,  linked  by  school  associations  with  Leigh 
Hunt,  filled  the  theatrical  department  of  criticism  in  the 
Examiner  during  tlie  period  when  the  Editor's  imprisonment 
for  alleged  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent  precluded  his  attend- 
ance on  the  theatres.  It  was  no  easy  office  of  friendship  to 
supply  the  place  of  Hunt  in  the  department  of  criticism  he 
may  be  almost  said  to  have  invented  ;  but  Mr.  Barnes,  though 
in  a  different  style,  well  sustained  the  attractions  of  the  "  The- 
atrical Examiner."  Fortunately  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Kean 
during  this  interval  enabled  him  to  gratify  the  profound  en- 
thusiasm of  his  nature,  without  doing  violence  to  the  fastidious 
taste  to  which  it  was  usually  subjected.  Fie  perceived  at 
once  the  vivid  energy  of  the  new  actor  ;  understood  his  faults 
to  be  better  than  the  excellencies  of  ordinary  aspirants,  and 
hailed  him  with  the  most  generous  praise — the  more  valuable 
as  it  proceeded  from  one  rarely  induced  to  render  applause, 
and  never  yielding  it  except  on  the  conviction  of  true  excel- 


230  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 


lence.  Hazlitt,  who  contributed  theatrical  criticism,  at  the 
same  time,  to  the  "  Mornintr  Chronicle,"  and  who  astounded 
the  tame  mediocrity  of  Mr.  Perry's  subordinates  by  his 
earnest  eulogy,  and  Barnes,  had  the  satisfaction  of  first  ap- 
preciating this  unfriended  performer,  and,  while  many  were 
offended  by  the  daring  novelty  of  his  style,  and  more  stood 
aloof  with  fashionable  indifference  from  a  deserted  theatre, 
of  awakening  that  spirit  wliich  retrieved  the  fortunes  of  Old 
Drury — which  revived,  for  a  brilliant  interval,  the  interest 
of  the  English  stage — and  which  bore  the  actor  on  a  tide 
of  intoxicating  success  that  "  knew  no  retiring  ebb"  till  it  was 
unhappily  checked  by  his  own  lamentable  frailties.* 

The  manners  of  Mr.  Barnes,  though  extremely  courteous, 
were  so  reserved  as  to  seem  cold  to  strangers  ;  but  they  were 
changed,  as  by  magic,  by  the  contemplation  of  moral  or  intel- 
lectual beauty,  awakened  in  a  small  circle.  I  well  remem- 
ber him,  late  one  evening  in  the  year  1816,  when  only  two 

*  As  the  Essays  of  Mr.  Barnes  have  never  been  collected,  I  take 
leave  to  present  to  the  reader  the  conclusion  of  his  article  in  the  Ex- 
aminer of  February  27,  1814,  on  the  first  appearance  of  Mr.  Kean  in 
Richard  : — 

"  In  the  heroic  parts,  he  animated  every  spectator  with  his  own  feel- 
ings ;  when  he  exclaimed  '  that  a  thousand  hearts  were  swelling  in  his 
bosom,'  the  house  shouted  to  express  their  accordance  to  a  truth  so 
nobly  exemplified  by  the  energy  of  his  voice,  by  the  grandeur  of  his 
mien.  His  death-scene  was  the  grandest  conception,  and  executed  in 
the  most  impressive  manner  ;  it  was  a  piece  of  noble  poetry,  expressed 
by  action  instead  of  language.  He  fights  desperately  :  he  is  disarmed 
and  exhausted  of  all  bodily  strength  :  he  disdains  to  fall,  and  his  strong 
volition  keeps  him  standing  :  he  fi.xes  that  head,  full  of  intellectual  and 
heroic  power,  directly  on  the  enemy  :  he  bears  up  his  chest  with  an  ex- 
pansion which  seems  swelling  with  more  than  human  spirit :  he  holds 
his  uplifted  arm  in  calm  but  dreadful  defiance  of  his  conqueror.  But  he 
is  but  a  man,  and  he  falls,  after  this  sublime  effort,  senseless  to  the 
ground.  We  have  felt  our  eyes  gush  on  reading  a  passage  of  exquisite 
poetry.  We  have  been  ready  to  leap  at  sight  of  a  noble  picture,  but  we 
never  felt  stronger  emotion,  more  overpowering  sensations,  than  were 
kindled  by  the  novel  sublimity  of  this  catastrophe.  In  matters  of  mere 
taste,  there  will  be  a  difference  of  opinion  ;  but  here  there  was  no  room 
to  doubt,  no  reason  could  be  imprudent  enough  to  hesitate.  Every 
heart  beat  an  echo  responsive  to  this  call  of  elevated  nature,  and  yearned 
with  fondness  towards  the  man  who,  while  he  excited  admiration  for 
himself,  made  also  his  admirers  glow  with  a  warmth  of  conscious  supe- 
riority, because  they  were  able  to  appreciate  such  an  exalted  degree  of 
excellence." 


THOMAS    BARNES.  231 


or  three  friends  remained  with  Lamb  and  his  sister,  long 
lafter  "  we  had  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight,"  holding  invete- 
rate but  delighted  controversy  with  Lainb,  res|)ecting  the 
tragic  power  of  Dante  as  compared  with  that  of  Shakspeare. 
Dante  was  scarcely  known  to  Lamb  ;  for  he  was  unable  to 
read  the  original,  and  Gary's  noble  translation  was  not  then 
known  to  him  ;  and  Barnes  aspired  to  tlie  glory  of  affording 
him  a  glimpse  of  a  kindred  greatness  in  the  mighty  Italian 
with  that  which  he  had  conceived  incapable  of  human  rivalry. 
The  face  of  the  advocate  of  Dante,  heavy  when  in  repose, 
grew  bright  with  earnest  admiration  as  he  quoted  images, 
sentiments,  dialogues,  against  Lamb,  who  had  taken  his  own 
immortal  stand  on  Lear,  and  urged  the  supremacy  of  the 
child-changed  father  against  all  the  possible  Ugolinos  of  the 
world.  Some  reference  having  been  made  by  Lamb  to  his 
own  exposition  of  Lear,  which  had  been  recently  published 
in  a  magazine  edited  by  Leigh  Hunt,  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Reflector,"  touched  another  and  a  tenderer  string  of  feeling, 
turned  a  little  the  course  of  his  enthusiasm  the  more  to  in- 
flame it,  and  brought  out  a  burst  of  affectionate  admiration 
for  his  friend,  then  scarcely  known  to  the  world,  which  was 
the  more  striking  for  its  contrast  with  his  usually  sedate  de- 
meanor. I  think  I  see  him  now,  leaning  forward  upon  the 
little  table  on  which  the  candles  were  just  expiring  in  their 
sockets,  his  fists  clenched,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  his  face 
bathed  in  perspiration,  exclaiming  to  Lamb,  "  And  do  I  not 
know,  my  boy,  that  you  have  written  about  Shakspeare,  and 
Shakspeare's  own  Lear,  finer  than  any  one  ever  did  in  the 
world,  and  won't  I  let  the  world  know  it?"  He  was  right; 
there  is  no  criticism  in  the  world  more  worthy  of  the  genius 
it  estimates  than  that  little  passage  referred  to  on  Lear ;  (ew 
felt  it  then  like  Barnes  :  thousands  have  read  it  since,  here, 
and  tens  of  thousands  in  America;  and  have  felt  as  he  did  ; 
and  will  answer  for  the  truth  of  that  excited  hour. 

Mr.  Barnes  combined  singular  acuteness  of  understanding 
with  remarkable  simplicity  of  character.  If  he  was  skillful 
in  finding  out  those  who  duped  others,  he  made  some  amends 
to  the  world  of  sharpers  by  being  abundantly  duped  himself. 
He  might  caution  the  public  to  be  on  their  guard  against  im- 
postors of  every  kind,  but  his  heart  was  open  to  every  spe- 
cies of  delusion  which  came  in  the  shape  of  misery.     Poles 


232  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

— real  and  theatrical — refugees,  pretenders  of  all  kinds, 
found  their  way  to  the  Times'  inner  office,  and  though  the 
inexorable  editor  excluded  their  lucubrations  from  the  pre- 
cious space  of  its  columns,  he  rarely  omitted  to  make  them 
amends  by  large  contributions  from  his  purse.  The  intimate 
acquaintance  with  all  the  varieties  of  life  forced  on  him  by 
his  position  in  the  midst  of  a  moving  epitome  of  the  world, 
which  vividly  I'cflected  tliem  all,  failed  to  teach  him  distrust 
or  discretion.  He  was  a  child  in  the  centre  of  the  most  fe- 
verish agitations  ;  a  dupe  in  the  midst  of  the  quickest  appre- 
hensions ;  and  while,  with  unbending  pride,  he  repelled  the 
slightest  interference  with  his  high  functions  from  the  great- 
est quarters,  he  was  open  to  every  tale  from  the  lowest  which 
could  win  from  him  personal  aid.  Rarely  as  he  was  seen  in 
his  later  years  in  Lamb's  circle,  he  is  indestructibly  associat- 
ed with  it  in  the  recollection  of  the  few  survivors  of  its  elder 
days ;  and  they  will  lament  with  me  that  the  influences  for 
good  which  he  shed  largely  on  all  the  departments  of  busy 
life,  should  have  necessarily  left  behind  them  such  slender 
memorials  of  one  of  the  kindest,  the  wisest,  and  the  best  of 
men  who  have  ever  enjoyed  signal  opportunities  of  moulding 
public  opinion,  and  who  have  turned  them  to  the  noblest  and 
purest  uses. 

Among  Lamb's  early  acquaintances  and  constant  admir- 
ers was  an  artist  whose  chequered  career  and  melancholy 
death  give  an  interest  to  the  recollections  with  which  he  is 
linked  independent  of  that  which  belongs  to  his  pictures — 
Benjamin  Robert  Haydon.  The  ruling  misfortune  of  his 
life  was  somewhat  akin  to  that  disproportion  in  Hazlitt's  mind 
to  which  I  have  adveiled,  but  productive  in  his  case  of  more 
disastrous  results — the  possession  of  two  different  faculties 
not  harmonized  into  one,  and  struggling  for  mastery — in  that 
disarrangement  of  the  faculties  in  which  the  unproductive 
talent  becomes  not  a  mere  negative,  but  neutralizes  the  other, 
and  even  turns  its  good  into  evil.  Haydon,  the  son  of  a  re- 
spectable tradesman  at  Plymouth,  was  endowed  with  two 
capacities,  either  of  wliich,  exclusively  cultivated  with  the 
energy  of  his  disposition,  might  liave  led  to  fortune — the  ge- 
nius of  a  painter,  and  the  passionate  logic  of  a  controversial- 
ist ;  talents  scarcely  capable  of  being  blended  in  harmonious 


BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HAYDON.  233 

action  except  under  the  auspices  of  prosperity  such  as  should 
satisfy  the  artist  by  fame,  and  appease  the  literary  combat- 
ant by  triumph. 

The  combination  of  a  turbulent  vivacity  of  mind  with  a 
fine  aptitude  for  the  most  serene  of  arts  was  rendered  more 
infelicitous  by  the  circumstances  of  the  young  painter's  early 
career.  He  was  destined  painfully  to  work  liis  way  at  once 
through  the  lower  elements  of  his  art  and  the  difficulties  of 
adverse  fortune  ;  and  though  by  indomitable  courage  and 
unwearied  industry  he  became  master  of  anatomic  science, 
of  coloring,  and  of  perspective,  and  achieved  a  position  in 
which  his  efforts  might  be  fairly  presented  to  the  notice  of 
the  world,  his  impetuous  temperament  was  yet  further  ruffled 
by  the  arduous  and  complicated  struggle.  With  boundless 
intellectual  ambition,  he  sought  to  excel  in  the  loftiest  depart- 
ment of  his  art ;  and  undertook  the  double  responsibility  of 
painting  great  pictures  and  of  creating  the  taste  which  should 
appreciate,  and  enforcing  the  patronage  which  should  reward 
them. 

The  patronage  of  high  art,  not  then  adopted  by  the  govern- 
ment, and  far  beyond  the  means  of  individuals  of  the  middle 
class,  necessarily  appertained  to  a  few  members  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, who  alone  could  encourage  and  remunerate  the 
painters  of  history.  Although  the  beginning  of  Mr.  Ilaydon's 
career  was  not  unci)eered  by  aristocratic  flivor,  the  contrast 
between  the  greatness  of  his  own  conceptions  and  the  humility 
of  the  course  which  prudence  suggested  as  necessary  to  obtain 
for  himself  the  means  of  developing  them  on  canvas,  fevered 
his  nature,  which,  ardent  in  gratitude  for  the  appreciation 
and  assistance  of  the  wealthy  to  a  degree  which  might  even 
be  mistaken  for  servility,  was  also  impatient  of  the  general 
indifference  to  the  cause  of  which  he  sought  to  be,  not  only 
the  ornament,  but,  unhappily  for  him,  also  the  champion. 
Alas!  he  there  "perceived  a  divided  duty."  Had  he  been 
contented  silently  to  paint — to  endure  obscurity  and  priva- 
tion for  a  while,  gradually  to  mature  his  powers  of  execution 
and  soften  the  rigor  of  his  style  and  of  his  virtue,  he  might 
have  achieved  works,  not  only  as  vast  in  outline  and  as 
beautiful  in  portions  as  those  which  he  exhibited,  but  so  har- 
monious in  their  excellencies  as  to  charm  away  opposition, 
and  ensure  speedy   reputation,   moderate   fortune,  and    last 


234  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

ing  fame.  But  resolved  to  battle  for  that  which  he  believ- 
ed to  be  "  the  right,"  he  rushed  into  a  life-long  contest 
with  the  Royal  Academy  ;  frequently  suspended  the  gen- 
tle labors  of  the  pencil  for  the  vehement  use  of  the  pen  ; 
and  thus  gave  to  his  course  an  air  of  defiance  which  pi'e- 
vented  the  calm  appreciation  of  his  nobler  works,  and  in- 
creased the  mischief  by  reaction.  Indignant  of  the  scorns 
"  tliat  patient  merit  of  t-lie  unworthy  takes,"  he  sometimes 
fancied  scorns  which  impatient  merit  in  return  imputes  to  the 
worthy ;  and  thus  instead  of  enjoying  the  most  tranquil  of 
lives  (which  a  painter's  should  be),  led  one  of  the  most  ani- 
mated, restless,  and  broken.  The  necessary  consequence 
of  this  disproportion  was  a  series  of  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ments, the  direct  result  of  his  struggle  with  fortune  ;  a  suc- 
cession of  feverish  triumphs  and  disappointments,  the  fruits 
of  his  contest  with  power  ;  and  worse  perhaps  than  either, 
the  frequent  diversion  of  his  own  genius  from  its  natural 
course,  and  the  hurried  and  imperfect  development  of  its  most 
majestic  conceptions.  To  paint  as  finely  as  he  sometimes 
did  in  the  ruffled  pauses  of  his  passionate  controversy,  and 
amidst  the  terrors  of  impending  want,  was  to  display  large 
innate  resources  of  skill  and  high  energy  of  mind  ;  but  how 
much  more  unquestionable  fame  might  he  have  attained,  if 
his  disposition  had  permitted  him  to  be  content  with  charming 
the  world  of  art,  instead  of  attempting  also  to  instruct  or  re- 
form it ! 

Mr.  Haydon's  course,  though  thus  troubled,  was  one  of 
constant  animation,  and  illustrated  by  hours  of  triumph,  the 
more  radiant  because  they  were  snatched  from  adverse  for- 
tune and  a  reluctant  people.  The  exhibition  of  a  single 
picture  by  an  artist  at  war  with  the  Academy  which  exhibit- 
ed a  thousand  pictures  at  the  same  price — creating  a  sensa- 
tion not  only  among  artists  and  patrons  of  art,  but  among 
the  most  secluded  literary  circles — and  engaging  the  highest 
powers  of  criticism — was,  itself,  a  splendid  occurrence  in 
life ; — and,  twice  at  least,  in  the  instance  of  the  Entry  into 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Lazarus,  was  crowned  with  signal  suc- 
cess. It  was  a  proud  moment  for  the  daring  painter,  when, 
at  the  opening  of  the  first  of  these  Exhibitions,  while  the 
crowd  of  visitors,  distinguished  in  rank  or  talent,  stood  doubt- 
ing whether  in  the  countenance  of  the  chief  figure  the  daring 


BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HAYDON.  235 

attempt  to  present  an  aspect  differing  from  that  which  had 
enkindled  the  devotion  of  ages — to  mingle  the  human  with 
the  Divine,  resolution  with  sweetness,  dignified  composure 
with  the  anticipation  of  mighty  suffering — had  not  iliiled, 
Mrs.  Siddons  walked  slowly  up  to  the  centre  of  the  room, 
surveyed  it  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  ejacula- 
ted, in  her  deep,  low,  thrilling  voice,  "  It  is  perfect;"  quelled 
all  opposition,  and  removed  the  doubt,  from  his  own  mind  at 
least,  for  ever. 

Although  the  great  body  of  artists  to  whose  corporate 
power  Mr.  Ilaydon  was  so  passionately  opposed,  naturally 
stood  aside  from  his  path,  it  was  cheered  by  the  attention  and 
often  by  the  applause  of  the  chief  literary  spirits  of  the  age, 
who  were  attracted  by  a  fierce  intellectual  struggle.  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Hazlitt,  Godwin,  Shelley,  Hunt, 
Coleridge,  Lamb,  Keats — and  many  young  writers  for  peri- 
odical works,  in  the  freshness  of  unhacknicd  authorship — 
took  an  interest  in  a  course  so  gallant  though  so  troublous, 
which  excited  their  sympathy  yet  did  not  force  them  to  the 
irksome  duty  of  unqualified  praise.  Almost  in  the  outset  of 
his  career,  Wordsworth,  addressed  to  him  a  sonnet  in  heroic 
strain,  associating  the  artist's  calling  with  his  own  ;  making 
common  cause  with  him,  "  while  the  whole  world  seems 
adverse  to  desert ;"  admonishing  him  "  still  to  be  strenuous 
for  the  bright  reward,  and  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay ;" 
and,  long  after,  when  the  poet  had,  by  a  wiser  perseverance, 
gradually  created  the  taste  which  appreciated  his  works,  he 
celebrated,  in  another  sonnet,  the  fine  autumnal  conception 
in  the  picture  of  Napoleon  on  the  rock  of  St.  Helena,  with 
his  back  to  the  spectator,  contemplating  the  blank  sea,  left 
desolate  by  the  sunken  sun.  The  Conqueror  of  Napoleon 
also  recognized  the  artist's  claims,  and  supplied  him  with 
another  great  subject,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  solitude  of 
Waterloo  by  its  hero,  ten  years  after  the  victory. 

Mr.  Haydon's  vividness  of  mind  burst  out  in  his  conver- 
sation;  which  though  somewhat  broken  and  rugged,  like  his 
cai'eer,  had  also,  like  that,  a  vein  of  beauty  streaking  it. 
Having  associated  with  most  of  the  remarkable  persons  of 
his  time,  and  seen  strange  varieties  of  "  many-colored  life  " 
— gifted  with  a  rapid  perception  of  character  and  a  painter's 
eye  for  effect, — he  was  able  to  hit  off,  with  startling  facility, 


236  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

sketches  in  words  which  lived  before  the  hearer.  His  anx- 
ieties and  sorrows  did  not  destroy  the  buoyancy  of  his  spirits 
or  rob  the  convivial  moment  of  its  prosperity  ;  so  that  he 
struggled,  and  toiled,  and  laughed,  and  triumphed,  and  failed, 
and  hoped  on,  till  the  waning  of  life  approached  and  found 
him  still  in  opposition  to  the  world,  and  far  from  the  threshold 
of  fortune.  The  object  of  his  literary  exertions  was  partially 
attained  :  the  national  attention  had  been  directed  to  high  art ; 
but  he  did  not  personally  share  in  the  benefits  he  had  greatly 
contributed  to  win.  Even  his  cartoon  of  the  Curse  in  Para- 
dise failed  to  obtain  a  prize,  when  he  entered  the  arena  with 
unfledged  youths  for  competitors  ;  and  the  desertion  of  the 
exhibition  of  his  two  pictures  of  Aristides  and  Nero,  at  the 
Egyptian  Hall,  by  the  public,  for  the  neighboring  exposure 
of  the  clever  manikin,  General  Tom  Thumb,  quite  vanquished 
him.  It  was  indeed  a  melancholy  contrast  ; — the  unending 
succession  of  bright  crowds  thronging  the  levees  of  the  small 
abortion,  and  the  dim  and  dusty  room  in  which  the  two  latest 
historical  pictures  of  the  veteran  hung  for  hours  without  a 
visitor.  Opposition,  abuse,  even  neglect  he  could  have  borne, 
but  the  sense  of  ridicule  involved  in  such  a  juxtaposition 
drove  him  to  despair.  No  one  who  knew  him  ever  appre- 
hended from  his  disasters  such  a  catastrophe  as  that  which 
closed  them.  He  had  always  cherished  a  belief  in  the  reli- 
gion of  our  Church,  and  avowed  it  among  scoffing  unbe- 
lievers ;  and  that  belief  he  asserted  even  in  the  wild  frag- 
ments he  penned  in  his  last  terrible  hour.  His  friends 
thought  that  even  the  sense  of  the  injustice  of  the  world 
would  have  contributed  with  his  undimmed  consciousness 
of  his  own  powers  to  enable  him  to  endure.  In  his  domes- 
tic relations  also  he  was  happy,  blessed  in  the  affection  of  a 
wife  of  great  beauty  and  equal  discretion,  who,  by  gentler 
temper  and  serener  wisdom  than  his  own,  had  assisted  and 
soothed  him  in  all  his  anxieties  and  griefs,  and  whose  image 
was  so  identified  in  his  mind  with  the  beautiful  as  to  impress 
its  character  on  all  the  forms  of  female  loveliness  he  has 
created.  Those  who  knew  him  best  feel  the  strongest  assu- 
rance, that  notwithstanding  the  appearances  of  preparation 
which  attended  his  extraordinary  suicide,  his  mind  was 
shattered  to  pieces — all  distorted  and  broken — with  only 
one  feeling  left  entire,  the  perversion  of  which  led  to  the 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  237 

deed,  a  hope  to  awaken  sympathy  in  death  for  those  whom 
living  he  could  not  shelter.  The  last  hurried  linos  he  wrote, 
entitled  "  Haydon's  last  Thoughts,"  consisted  of  a  fevered 
comparison  hetween  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Napoleon, 
in  which  he  seemed  to  wish  to  repair  some  supposed  injustice 
which  in  speech  or  writing  he  liad  done  to  tlic  Conqueror. 
It  was  enclosed  in  a  letter  addressed  to  three  friends,  written 
in  the  hour  of  his  death,  and  containing  sad  fragmental  me- 
morials of  those  passionate  hopes,  fierce  struggles,  and  bitter 
disappointments  which  brought  him  through  distraction  to  the 
grave  ! 

A  visit  of  Coleridge  was  always  regarded  by  Lamb  as 
an  opportunity  to  afford  a  rare  gratification  to  a  few  friends, 
who,  he  knew,  would  prize  it ;  and  I  well  remember  the 
flush  of  prideful  pleasure  which  came  over  his  face  as  he 
would  hurry,  on  his  way  to  the  India  House,  into  the  office 
in  which  I  was  a  pupil,  and  stammer  out  the  welcome  invi- 
tation for  the  evening.  This  was  true  self-sacrifice  ;  for  Lamb 
would  have  infinitely  preferred  having  his  inspired  friend  to 
himself  and  his  sister,  for  a  brief  renewal  of  the  old  Saluta- 
tion delights  ;  but,  I  believe,  he  never  permitted  himself  to 
enjoy  this  exclusive  treat.  The  pleasure  he  conferred  was 
great ;  for  of  all  celebrated  persons  I  ever  saw,  Coleridge 
alone  surpassed  the  expectation  created  by  his  writings  ;  for 
he  not  only  was,  but  appeared  to  be,  greater  than  the  noblest 
things  he  had  written. 

Lamb  used  to  speak,  sometimes  with  a  moistened  eye  and 
quivering  lip,  of  Coleridge  when  young,  and  wish  that  we 
could  have  seen  him  in  the  spring-time  of  his  genius,  at  a 
supper  in  the  little  sanded  parlor  of  the  old  Salutation  hostel. 
The  promise  of  those  days  was  never  realized,  by  the  execu- 
tion of  any  of  the  mighty  works  he  planned;  but  the  very 
failure  gave  a  sort  of  mournful  interest  to  the  "  large  dis- 
course, looking  before  and  after,"  to  which  we  were  en- 
chanted listeners ;  to  the  wisdom  which  lives  only  in  our 
memories,  and  must  perish  with  them. 

From  Coleridge's  early  works,  some  notion  may  be  glean- 
ed of  what  he  was;  when  the  steep  ascent  of  fame  rose  di- 
rectly before  him,  while  he  might  loiter  to  dally  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  its  summit,  without  ignobly  shrinking  from  its 


238  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

labors.  His  endowments  at  that  time — the  close  of  the  last 
century — when  literature  had  faded  into  a  fashion  of  poor 
language,  must  have  seemed,  to  a  mind  and  heart  like  Lamb's, 
no  less  than  miraculous. 

A  rich  store  of  classical  knowledge — a  sense  of  the  beau- 
tiful, almost  verging  on  the  effeminate — a  facile  power  of 
melody,  varying  from  the  solemn  stops  of  the  organ  to  a  bird- 
like flutter  of  airy  sound — the  glorious  faculty  of  poetic  hope, 
exerted  on  human  prospects,  and  presenting  its  results  with 
the  vividness  of  prophecy  ;  a  power  of  imaginative  reasoning 
which  peopled  the  nearer  ground  of  contemplation  with 
thoughts, 

"  All  plumed  like  ostriches,  like  eagles  bathed, 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  Midsummer," 

endowed  the  author  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  "  Chris- 
tabel.''  Thus  gifted,  he  glided  from  youth  into  manhood,  as 
a  fairy  voyager  on  a  summer  sea,  to  eddy  round  and  round 
in  dazzling  circles,  and  to  make  little  progress,  at  last,  to- 
wards any  of  those  thousand  mountain  summits  which,  glori- 
fied by  aerial  tints,  rose  before  him  at  the  extreme  verge  of 
the  vast  horizon  of  his  genius.  "  The  Ancient  Mariner," 
printed  with  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  one  of  his  earliest  works, 
is  still  his  finest  poem — at  once  the  most  vigorous  in  design, 
and  the  most  chaste  in  execution- — developing  the  intensest 
human  affection,  amidst  the  wildest  scenery  of  a  poet's 
dream.  Nothing  was  too  bright  to  hope  from  such  a  dawn. 
The  mind  of  Coleridge  seemed  the  harbinger  of  the  golden 
years  his  enthusiasm  predicted  and  painted  :  of  those  days 
of  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  among  men,  which  the  best 
and  greatest  minds  have  rejoiced  to  anticipate — and  the  earn- 
est belief  in  which  is  better  than  all  frivolous  enjoyments,  all 
worldly  Avisdom,  all  worldly  success.  And  if  the  noontide 
of  his  genius  did  not  fulfill  his  youth's  promise  of  manly  vigor, 
nor  the  setting  of  his  earthly  life  honor  it  by  an  answering 
serenity  of  greatness — Ihey  still  have  left  us  abundant  reason 
to  be  grateful  that  the  glorious  fragments  of  his  mighty  and 
imperfect  being  were  ours.  Cloud  after  cloud  of  German 
metaphysics  rolled  before  his  imagination — which  it  had 
power  to  irradiate  with  fantastic  beauty,  and  to  break  into  a 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE.  239 

thousand  shifting  forms  of  grandeur,  though  not  to  conquer; 
mist  after  mist  ascended  from  those  streams  where  eartli  and 
sky  should  have  blended  in  one  imagery,  and  were  turned  by 
its. obscure  glory  to  radiant  haze;  indulgence  in  the  fearful 
luxury  of  that  talismanic  drug,  which  opens  glittering  scenes 
of  fantastic  beauty  on  the  waking  soul  to  leave  it  in  arid  deso- 
lation, too  often  veiled  it  in  partial  eclipse,  and  blended  fitful 
light  with  melancholy  blackness  over  its  vast  domain  ;  but 
the  great  central  light  remained  unquenched,  and  cast  its 
gleams  through  every  department  of  human  knowledge.  A 
boundless  capacity  to  receive  and  retain  intellectual  treas- 
ure made  him  the  possessor  of  vaster  stores  of  lore,  classical, 
antiquarian,  hisotrical,  biblical,  and  miscellaneous,  than  were 
ever  vouchsafed,  at  least  in  our  time,  to  a  mortal  being ; 
goodly  structures  of  divine  philosophy  rose  before  him  like 
exhalations  on  the  table-land  of  that  his  prodigious  knowl- 
edge ;  but,  alas  !  there  was  a  deficiency  of  the  power  of  vol- 
untary action  which  would  have  left  him  unable  to  embody 
the  shapes  of  a  shepherd's  dreams,  and  made  him  feeble  as 
an  infant  before  the  overpowering  majesty  of  his  own  !  Hence 
his  literary  life  became  one  splendid  and  sad  prospectus — re- 
sembling only  the  portal  of  a  mighty  temple  which  it  was  for- 
bidden us  to  enter — but  whence  strains  of  rich  music  issu- 
ing "  took  the  prisoned  soul  and  lapped  it  in  Elysium,"  and 
fragments  of  oracular  wisdom  startled  the  thought  they  could 
not  satisfy. 

Hence  the  riches  of  his  mind  were  developed,  not  in 
writing,  but  in  his  speech — conversation  I  can  scarcely  call 
it — which  no  one  who  once  heard  can  ever  forget.  Unable 
to  work  in  solitude,  he  sought  the  gentle  stimulus  of  social 
admiration,  and  under  its  influences  poured  forth,  without  stint, 
the  marvellous  resources  of  a  mind  rich  in  the  spoils  of  time 
— richer — richer  far  in  its  own  glorious  imagination  and  deli- 
cate fancy  !  There  was  a  noble  prodigality  in  these  outpour- 
ings ;  a  generous  disdain  of  self;  an  earnest  desire  to  scatter 
abroad  the  seeds  of  wisdom  and  beauty,  to  take  root  where- 
ever  they  might  fall,  and  spring  up  without  bearing  his  name 
or  impress,  which  might  remind  the  listener  of  the  first  days 
of  poetry  before  it  became  individualized  by  the  press,  when 
the  Homeric  rhapsodist  wandered  through  new-born  cities 
and  scattered  hovels,  flashing  upon  the  minds  of  the  wonder- 


240  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

ing  audience  the  bright  train  of  heroic  shapes,  the  series  of 
godlike  exploits,  and  sought  no  record  more  enduring  than  the 
fleshly  tablets  of  his  hearers'  hearts;  no  memory  but  that  of 
genial  tradition ;  when  copy-right  did  not  ascertain  the  re- 
citer's property,  nor  marble  at  once  perpetuate  and  shed  chill- 
ness  on  his  fame — 

"  His  bounty  was  as  boundless  as  the  sea. 
His  love  as  deep." 

Like  the  ocean,  in  all  its  variety  of  gentle  moods,  his  dis- 
course perpetually  ebbed  and  flowed, — nothing  in  it  angular, 
nothing  of  set  purpose,  but  now  trembling  as  the  voice  of 
divine  philosophy,  "  not  harsh  nor  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  sup- 
pose, but  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute,"  was  wafted  over  the 
summer  wave ;  now  glistening  in  long  line  of  light  over 
ssme  obscure  subject,  like  the  path  of  moonlight  on  the  black 
water;  and,  if  ever  receding  from  the  shore,  driven  by  some 
sudden  gust  of  inspiration,  disclosing  the  treasures  of  the 
deep,  like  the  rich  strond  in  Spenser,  ''  far  sunken  in  their 
sunless  treasuries,"  to  be  covered  anon  by  the  foam  of  the 
same  immortal  tide.  The  benignity  of  his  manner  befitted 
the  beauty  of  his  disquisitions  ;  his  voice  rose  from  the  gen- 
tlest pitch  of  conversation  to  the  height  of  impassioned  elo- 
quence without  effort,  as  his  language  expanded  from  some 
common  topic  of  the  day  to  the  loftiest  abstractions ;  ascend- 
ing by  a  winding  track  of  spiral  glory  to  the  highest  truths 
which  the  naked  eye  could  discern,  and  suggesting  starry  re- 
gions beyond,  which  his  own  telescopic  gaze  might  possibly 
decipher.  If  his  entranced  hearers  often  were  unable  to 
perceive  the  bearings  of  his  argument — too  mighty  for  any 
grasp  but  his  own — and  sometimes  reaching  beyond  his  own 
— they  understood  "  a  heauty  in  the  words,  if  not  the  woi'ds  ;" 
and  a  wisdom  and  piety  in  the  illustrations,  even  when  una- 
ble to  connect  them  with  the  idea  which  he  desired  to  illus- 
trate. If  an  entire  scheme  of  moral  philosophy  was  never 
developed  by  him  either  in  speaking  or  writing,  all  the  parts 
were  great :  vast  biblical  knowledge,  though  sometimes  eddy- 
ing in  splendid  conjecture,  was  always  employed  with  pious 
reverence  ;  the  morality  suggested  was  at  once  elevated  and 
genial ;  the  charity  hoped  all  things;  and  the  mighty  imagi- 
native reasoner,  seemed  almost  to  realize  the  condition  sug- 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  241 


gested  by  the  great  Apostle,  "  that  he  understootl  all  myste- 
ries and  all  knowledge,  and  spake  with  the  tongues  both  of 
men  and  angels  !" 

After  Coleridge  had  found  his  last  earthly  refuge,  under 
the  wise  and  generous  care  of  Mr.  Oilman,  at  Highgate,  he 
rarely  visited  Lamb,  and  my  opportunities  of  observing  him 
ceased.  From  those  who  were  more  favored,  as  well  as 
from  the  fragments  I  have  seen  of  his  last  effusions,  I  know 
that,  amidst  sufl'uring  and  weakness,  his  mighty  mind  con- 
centrated its  energies  on  the  highest  subjects  which  had 
ever  kindled  them  ;  that  the  speculations,  which  sometimes 
seemed  like  paradox,  because  their  extent  was  too  vast  to  be 
comprehended  in  a  single  grasp  of  intellectual  vision,  were 
informed  by  a  serener  wisdom ;  that  his  perceptions  of  the 
central  truth  became  more  undivided,  and  his  piety  more 
profound  and  humble.  His  love  for  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 
continued,  to  the  last,  one  of  the  strongest  of  his  human  af- 
fections— of  which,  by  the  kindness  of  a  friend,*  I  possess  an 
affecting  memorial  under  his  hand,  written  in  the  margin  of 
a  volume  of  his  "  Sybilline  Leaves,"  which — after  his  life- 
long habit — he  has  enriched  by  manuscript  annotations. 
The  poem,  beside  which  it  is  inscribed,  is  entitled,  "  The 
Lime-Tree  Bower  my  Prison,"  composed  by  the  poet  in 
June,  1796,  when  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  who  were  visit- 
ing at  his  cottage  near  Bristol,  left  him  for  a  walk,  which  an 
accidental  lameness  prevented  him  from  sharing.  The  vi- 
sitors are  not  indicated  by  the  poem,  except  that  Charles  is 
designated  by  the  epithet,  against  which  he  jestingly  remon- 
strated, as  "  gentle-hearted  Charles,"  and  is  represented  as 
winning  his  way,  with  sad  and  patient  soul,  through  evil  and 
pain,  and  strange  calamity."  Against  the  title  is  written  as 
follows : — 

CH.  &  MARY  LAMB, 

dear  to  my  heart,  yea, 

as  it  were,  my  heart, 

S.  T.  C.  ^t.  63.     1834 

1797 

18^4 


37  years ! 

*  Mr.  Richard  Welch,  of  Reading,  editor  of  the  Berkshire  Chronicja 
■^ne  of  the  ablest  productions  of  the  Conservative  Periodical  Press- 

u 


242        FINAL  MEMORIALS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

This  memorandum,  which  is  penned  with  remarkable 
neatness,  must  have  been  made  in  Coleridge's  last  illness,  as 
he  suffered  acutely  for  several  months  before  he  died,  in  July 
of  this  same  year,  1834.  What  a  space  did  that  thirty-seven 
years  of  fond  regard  for  the  brother  and  sister  occupy  in  a 
mind  like  Coleridge's,  peopled  with  immortal  thoughts  which 
might  multiply  in  the  true  time,  dialed  in  heaven,  its  minutes 
into  years ! 


These  friends  of  Lamb's  whom  I  have  ventured  to  sketch 
in  companionship  with  him,  and  Southey  also,  whom  I  only 
once  saw,  are  all  gone  ; — and  others  of  less  note  in  the  world's 
eye  have  followed  them.  Among  those  of  the  old  set  who 
are  gone,  is  Manning,  perhaps,  next  to  Coleridge,  the  dearest 
of  them,  whom  Lamb  used  to  speak  of  as  marvelous  in  a 
lete-d-tete,  but  who,  in  company,  seemed  only  a  courteous 
gentleman,  more  disposed  to  listen  than  to  talk.  In  good  old 
age,  departed  Admiral  Burney,  frank-hearted  voyager  with 
Captain  Cook  round  the  world,  who  seemed  to  unite  our  so- 
ciety with  the  circle  over  which  Dr.  Johnson  reigned  ;  who 
used  to  tell  of  school-days  under  the  tutelage  of  Eugene 
Aram ;  how  he  remembered  the  gentle  usher  pacing  the 
play-ground,  arm-in-arm  with  some  one  of  the  elder  boys, 
and  seeking  relief  from  the  unsuspected  burthen  of  his  con- 
science by  talking  of  strange  murders,  and  how  he,  a  child, 
had  shuddered  at  the  handcuffs  on  his  teacher's  hands  when 
taken  away  in  the  post-chaise  to  prison  ; — the  Admiral  being 
himself  the  centre  of  a  little  circle  which  his  sister,  the  fa- 
mous authoress  of  "  Evelina,"  "  Cecelia,"  and  *'  Camilla," 
sometimes  graced.  John  Lamb,  the  jovial  and  burly,  who 
dared  to  argue  with  Hazlitt  on  questions  of  art ;  Barron 
Field,  who  with  veneration  enough  to  feel  all  the  despised 
greatness  of  Wordsworth,  had  a  sparkling  vivacity,  and,  con- 
nected with  Lamb  by  the  link  of  Christ's  Hospital  associa- 
tions, shared  largely  in  his  regard  ;  Rickman,  the  sturdiest 
of  jovial  companions,  severe  in  the  discipline  of  whist  as  at 
the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons,  of  which  he  was  the 
principal  clerk  ;  and  Alsager,  so  calm,  so  bland,  so  consider- 
ate— all  are  gone.  These  were  all  Temple-guests — friends 
of  Lamb's  early  days  ;  but  the  companions  of  a  later  time, 


LAMB  S    DEAD    COMPANIONS.  243 

wlio  first  met  in  Great  Russell  Street,  or  Dalston,  or  Isling- 
ton, or  Enfield,  have  been  wofully  thinned  ;  Allan  Cunning- 
ham, stalwart  of  form  and  stout  of  heart  and  verse,  a  ruder 
Burns ;  Gary,  Lamb's  "  plcasantest  of  clergymen,"  whose 
sweetness  of  disposition  and  manner  would  have  prevented 
a  stranger  from  guessing  that  he  was  the  poet  who  had  ren- 
dered the  adamantine  poetry  of  Dante  into  English  with  kin- 
dred power ;  Hood,  so  grave  and  sad  and  silent,  that  you 
were  astonished  to  recognize  in  him  the  outpourcr  of  a  thou- 
sand wild  fancies,  the  detecter  of  the  inmost  springs  of  pa- 
thos, and  the  powerful  vindicator  of  poverty  and  toil  before 
the  hearts  of  the  prosperous  ;  the  Reverend  Edward  Irving, 
who,  after  fulfilling  an  old  prophecy  he  made  in  Scotland  to 
Hazlitt  that  he  would  astonish  and  shake  the  world  by  his 
preaching,  sat  humbly  at  the  feet  of  Coleridge  to  listen  to 
wisdom, — are  all  gone  ;  the  forms  of  others  associated  with 
Lamb's  circle  by  more  accidental  links  (also  dead)  come 
thronging  on  the  memory  from  the  mist  of  years — Alas ; 
it  is  easier  to  count  those  that  are  left  of  the  old  fiimiliar 
faces ! 

The  story  of  the  lives  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  is  now 
told  ;  nothing  more  remains  to  be  learned  respecting  it.  The 
known  collateral  branches  of  their  stock  are  extinct,  and 
their  upward  pedigree  lost  in  those  humble  tracks  on  which 
the  steps  of  Time  leave  so  light  an  impress,  that  the  dust  of  a 
few  years  obliterates  all  trace,  and  ailbrds  no  clue  to  search 
collaterally  for  surviving  relatives.  The  world  has,  there- 
fore, all  the  materials  ibr  judging  of  them  which  can  be  pos- 
sessed by  those  who,  not  remembering  the  delightful  pecu- 
liarities of  their  daily  manners,  can  only  form  imperfect 
ideas  of  what  they  were.  Before  bidding  them  a  last  adieu, 
we  may  be  permitted  to  linger  a  little  longer  to  survey  their 
characters  by  the  new  and  solemn  lights  which  are  now,  for 
the  first  time,  fully  cast  upon  them. 

Except  to  the  few  who  were  acquainted  with  the  tragical 
occurrences  of  Lamb's  early  life,  some  of  his  peculiarities 
seemed  strange — to  be  forgiven,  indeed,  to  the  excellencies 
of  his  nature,  and  the  delicacy  ofhis  genius — but  still,  in  them- 
selves, as  much  to  be  wondered  at  as  deplored.  The  sweet- 
ness of  his  character,  breathed  through  his  writings,  was  felt 
even  by  strangers ;  but  its  heroic   aspect  was  unguessed, 


244  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

even  by  many  of  his  friends.  Let  them  now  consider  it, 
and  ask  if  the  annals  of  self-sacrifice  can  show  any  thing  in 
human  action  and  endurance,  more  lovely  than  its  self-devo- 
tion exhibits !  It  was  not  merely  that  he  saw  (which  his 
elder  brother  cannot  be  blamed  for  not  immediately  perceiv- 
ing) through  the  ensanguined  cloud  of  misfortune  which  had 
fallen  upon  his  family,  the  unstained  excellence  of  his 
sister,  whose  madness  had  caused  it ;  that  he  was  ready  to 
take  her  to  his  own  home  with  reverential  affection,  and 
cherish  her  through  life  ;  that  he  gave  up,  for  her  sake,  all 
meaner  and  more  selfish  love,  and  all  the  hopes  which  youth 
blends  with  the  passion  which  disturbs  and  ennobles  it ;  not 
even  that  he  did  all  this  cheerfully,  and  without  pluming 
himself  upon  his  brotherly  nobleness  as  a  virtue,  or  seeking 
to  repay  himself  (as  some  uneasy  martyrs  do)  by  small  in- 
stalments of  long  repining, — but  that  he  carried  the  spirit  of 
the  hour  in  which  he  first  knew  and  took  his  course,  to  his 
last.  So  far  from  thinking  that  his  sacrifice  of  youth  and 
love  to  his  sister,  gave  him  a  license  to  follow  his  own  ca- 
price at  the  expense  of  her  feelings,  even  in  the  lightest  mat- 
ters, he  always  wrote  and  spoke  of  her  as  his  wiser  self; 
his  generous  benefactress,  of  whose  protecting  care  he  was 
scarcely  worthy.  How  his  pen  almost  grew  wanton  in  her 
praise,  even  when  she  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Asylum  after 
the  fatal  attack  of  lunacy,  his  letters  of  the  time  to  Coleridge 
show ;  but  that  might  have  been  a  mere  temporary  exalta- 
tion— the  attendant  fervor  of  a  great  exigency  and  a  great 
resolution.  It  was  not  so;  nine  years  afterwards  (1805),  in 
a  letter  to  Miss  Wordsworth,  he  thus  dilates  on  his  sister's 
excellencies,  and  exaggerates  his  own  frailties : — 

"  To  say  all  that  I  know  of  her  would  be  more  than  I 
think  anybody  could  believe  or  even  understand  ;  and  when 
I  hope  to  have  her  well  again  with  me,  it  would  be  sinning 
against  her  feelings  to  go  about  to  praise  her ;  for  I  can  con- 
ceal nothing  that  I  do  from  her.  She  is  older,  and  wiser,  and 
better  than  I,  and  all  my  wretched  imperfections  I  cover  to 
myself  by  resolutely  thinking  on  her  goodness.  She  would 
share  life  and  death,  heaven  and  hell,  with  me.  She  lives 
but  for  me ;  and  I  know  I  have  been  wasting  and  teasing 
her  life  for  five  years  past  incessantly  with  my  cursed  ways 


LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN.  245 

of  going  on.  But  even  in  this  upbraiding  of  myself,  I  am 
offending  against  her,  for  I  know  that  she  has  cleaved  to  me 
for  better,  for  worse ;  and  if  the  balance  has  been  against 
her  hitherto,  it  '  was  a  noble  trade.'  " 

Let  it  also  be  remembered  that  this  devotion  of  the  entire 
nature  was  not  exercised  merely  in  the  consciousness  of  a 
past  tragedy  ;  but  during  the  frequent  recurrences  of  the 
calamity  which  caused  it,  and  the  constant  apprehension  of 
its  terrors ;  and  this  for  a  large  portion  of  life,  in  poor  lodg- 
ings, where  the  brother  and  sister  were,  or  fancied  them- 
selves, "  marked  people  ;"  where  from  an  income  incapable 
of  meeting  the  expense  of  the  sorrow  without  sedulous  pri- 
vations,  he  contrived  to  hoard,  not  for  holiday  enjoyment,  or 
future  solace,  but  to  provide  for  expected  distress.  Of  the 
misery  attendant  on  this  anticipation,  aggravated  by  jealous 
fears  lest  some  imprudence  or  error  of  his  own  should  have 
hastened  the  inevitable  evil,  we  have  a  glimpse  in  the  letter 
to  Miss  Wordsworth  above  quo'.ed,  and  which  seems  to  have 
been  written  in  reply  to  one  which  that  excellent  lady  had 
addressed  to  Miss  Lamb,  and  which  had  fallen  into  the 
brother's  care  during  one  of  her  sad  absences. 

"Your  kind  letter  has  not  been  thrown  away,  but  poor 
Mary,  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  cannot  yet  relish  it.  She 
has  been  attacked  by  one  of  her  severe  illnesses,  and  is  at 
present  from  home.  Last  Monday  week  was  the  day  she 
left  me ;  and  I  hope  I  may  calculate  upon  having  her  again 
in  a  month  or  little  more.  I  am  rather  afraid  late  hours 
have,  in  this  case,  contributed  to  her  indisposition.  But  when 
she  begins  to  discover  symptoms  of  approaching  illness,  it  is 
not  easy  to  say  what  is  best  to  do.  Being  by  ourselves  is 
bad,  and  going  out  is  bad.  I  get  so  irritable  and  wretched 
with  fear,  that  I  constantly  hasten  on  the  disorder.  You 
cannot  conceive  the  miseiy  of  such  a  foresight.  I  am  sure 
that,  for  the  week  before  she  left  me,  I  was  little  better  than 
light-headed.  I  now  am  calm,  but  sadly  taken  down  and 
flat.  1  have  every  reason  to  suppose  that  this  illness,  like  all 
her  former  ones,  will  be  but  temporary.  But  I  cannot 
always  feel  so.     Meantime  she  is  dead  to  me  !  " 


246  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

The  constant  impendency  of  this  giant  sorrow  saddened 
to  "  the  Lambs  "  even  their  holidays  ;  as  the  journey  which 
they  both  regarded  as  the  relief  and  charm  of  the  year,  was 
frequently  followed  by  a  seizure ;  and,  when  they  ventured 
to  take  it,  a  strait-waistcoast,  carefully  packed  by  Miss  Lamb 
herself,  was  their  constant  companion.  Sad  experience,  at 
last,  induced  the  abandonment  of  the  annual  excursion,  and 
Lamb  was  contented  with  walks  in  and  near  London,  during 
the  interval  of  labor.  Miss  Lamb  experienced,  and  full  well 
understood  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  the  attack,  in  rest- 
lessness, low  fever,  and  the  inability  to  sleep  ;  and,  as  gently 
as  possible,  prepared  her  brother  for  the  duty  he  must  soon 
perform ;  and  thus,  unless  he  could  stave  off  the  terrible 
separation  (ill  Sunday,  obliged  him  to  ask  leave  of  absence 
from  the  office  as  if  for  a  day's  pleasure — a  bitter  mockery ! 
On  one  occasion  Mr.  Charles  Lloyd  met  them,  slowly  pacing 
together  a  little  footpath  in  Hoxton  fields,  both  weeping  bit- 
terly, and  found  on  joining  them,  that  they  were  taking  their 
solemn  way  to  the  accustomed  Asylum  ! 

Will  any  one,  acquainted  with  these  secret  passages  of 
Lamb's  history,  wonder  that,  with  a  strong  physical  inclina- 
tion for  the  stimulus  and  support  of  strong  drinks — which 
man  is  framed  moderately  to  rejoice  in — he  should  snatch 
some  wild  pleasure  "  between  the  acts  "  (as  he  called  them) 
"of  his  distressful  drama,"  and  that,  still  more,  during  the 
loneliness  of  the  solitude  created  by  his  sister's  absences,  he 
should  obtain  the  solace  of  an  hour's  feverish  dream  ?  That, 
notwithstanding  that  frailty,  he  performed  the  duties  of  his 
hard  lot  with  exemplary  steadiness  and  discretion  is  indeed 
wonderful — especially  when  it  is  recollected  that  he  had 
himself  been  visited,  when  in  the  dawn  of  manhood,  with  his 
sister's  malady,  the  seeds  of  which  were  doubtless  in  his 
frame.  While  that  natural  predisposition  may  explain  some 
occasional  flightiness  of  expression  on  serious  matters,  fruit 
of  some  wayward  fancy,  which  flitted  through  his  brain, 
without  disturbing  his  constant  reason  or  reaching  his  heart, 
and  some  little  extravagances  of  fitful  mirth,  how  docs  it 
heighten  the  moral  courage  by  which  the  disease  was  con- 
trolled and  the  severest  duties  performed  !  Never  surely 
was  there  a  more  striking  example  of  the  power  of  a  vir- 
tuous, rather  say,  of  a  pious,  wish  to  conquer  the  fiery  sug- 


LAMB   FULLY    KNOWx\.  247 

gestions  of  latent  insanity  than  that  presented  by  Lamb's 
history.  Nervous,  tremulous,  as  he  seemed — so  slight  of 
frame  that  he  looked  only  fit  for  the  most  placid  fortune — 
when  the  dismal  emergencies  which  checkered  his  life  arose, 
he  acted  witii  as  much  promptitude  and  vigor  as  if  he  had 
never  penned  a  stanza  nor  taken  a  glass  too  much,  or  was 
strung  with  herculean  sinews.  None  of  those  temptations, 
in  which  misery  is  the  most  potent,  to  hazard  a  lavish  expen- 
diture for  an  enjoyment  to  be  secured  against  fate  and  for- 
tune, ever  tempted  him  to  exceed  his  income,  when  scantiest, 
by  a  shilling.  He  had  always  a  reserve  for  poor  Mary's 
periods  of  seclusion,  and  sometliing  in  hand  besides  for  a 
friend  in  need  ; — and  on  his  retirement  from  the  India  House, 
he  had  amassed,  by  annual  savings,  a  sufficient  sum  (invest- 
ed, after  the  prudent  and  classical  taste  of  Lord  Stowell,  in 
"  the  elegant  simplicity  of  the  Three  per  Cents")  to  secure 
comfort  to  Miss  Lamb,  when  his  pension  should  cease  with 
him,  even  if  the  India  Company,  his  great  employers,  had 
not  acted  nobly  by  the  memory  of  their  inspired  clerk — as 
they  did — and  gave  her  the  annuity  to  which  a  wife  would 
have  been  entitled,  but  of  which  he  could  not  feel  assured. 
Living  among  literary  men,  some  less  distinguished  and  less 
discreet  than  those  whom  we  have  mentioned,  he  was  con- 
stantly importuned  to  relieve  distresses  which  an  improvident 
speculation  in  literature  produced,  and  which  tlic  recklessness 
attendant  on  the  empty  vanity  of  self-exaggerated  talent  ren- 
ders desperate  and  merciless ; — and  to  the  importunities  of 
such  hopeless  petitioners  he  gave  too  largely — though  he  used 
sometimes  express  a  painful  sense  that  he  was  diminishing 
his  own  store  without  conferring  any  real  benefit.  "  Heaven," 
he  used  to  say,  "  does  not  owe  me  sixpence  for  all  I  have 
given,  or  lent  (as  they  call  it)  to  such  importunity  ;  I  only 
gave  it  because  I  could  not  bear  to  refuse  it ;  and  I  have 
done  good  by  my  weakness."  On  the  other  hand  he  used  to 
seek  out  occasions  of  devoting  a  part  of  his  surplus  to  those 
of  his  friends  whom  he  believed  it  would  really  serve,  and 
almost  forced  loans,  or  gifts  in  the  disguise  of  loans,  upon 
them.  If  he  thought  one,  in  such  a  position,  would  be  the 
happier  for  50/.  or  100/.,  he  would  carefully  procure  a  note 
for  the  sum,  and,  perhaps,  for  days  before  he  might  meet  the 
object  of  his  friendly  purpose,  keep  tlie  note  in  his  waistcoat 


248        FINAL  MEMORIALS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pocket,  burning  in  it  to  be  produced,  and,  when  the  occasion 
arrived — "in  the  sweet  of  the  night" — he  would  crumple  it 
up  in  his  hand  and  stammer  out  his  difficulty  of  disposing  of 
a  little  money  ;  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it — pray  take 
it — pray  use  it — you  will  do  me  a  kindness  if  you  will" — 
he  would  say ;  and  it  was  hard  to  disoblige  him  !  Let  any 
one  who  has  been  induced  to  regard  Lamb  as  a  poor,  slight, 
excitable  and  excited  being,  consider  that  such  acts  as  these 
were  not  infrequent — that  he  exercised  hospitality  of  a  sub- 
stantial kind,  without  stint,  all  his  life — that  he  spared  no  ex- 
pense for  the  comfort  of  his  sister,  there  only  lavish — and  that 
he  died  leaving  sufficient  to  accomplish  all  his  wishes  for 
survivors — and  think  what  the  sturdy  quality  of  his  goodness 
must  have  been  amidst  all  the  heart-aches  and  head-aches  of 
his  life — and  ask  the  virtue  which  has  been  supported  by 
strong  nerves,  whether  it  has  often  produced  any  good  to 
match  it  ? 

The  influence  of  the  events  now  disclosed  may  be  traced 
in  the  development  and  direction  of  Lamb's  faculties  and 
tastes,  and  in  the  wild  contrasts  of  expression  which  some- 
times startled  strangers.  The  literary  preferences  disclosed 
in  his  early  letters,  are  often  inclined  to  the  superficial  in 
poetry  and  thought — the  theology  of  Priestley,  though  em- 
braced with  pious  earnestness — the  "  divine  chit-chat"  of 
Cowper — the  melodious  sadness  of  Bowles ;  and  his  own 
style,  breathing  a  graceful  and  modest  sweetness,  is  without 
any  decided  character.  But  by  the  terrible  realities  of  his 
experience,  he  was  turned  to  seek  a  kindred  interest  in  the 
"sterner  stuff"  of  old  tragedy — to  catastrophes  more  fearful 
even  than  his  own — to  the  aspects  of  "  pale  passion" — to 
shapes  of  heroic  daring  and  more  heroic  suffering — to  the 
agonizing  contests  of  opposing  affections,  and  the  victories 
of  the  soul  over  calamity  and  death,  which  the  old  English 
drama  discloses,  and  in  the  contemplation  of  which  he  saw 
his  own  suffering  nature  at  once  mirrored  and  exalted. 
Thus,  instead  of  admiring,  as  he  once  admired,  Rowe  and 
Otway,  even  Massinger  seemed  too  declamatory  to  satisfy 
him  ;  in  Ford,  Decker,  Marlowe,  and  Webster,  he  found  the 
most  awful  struggles  of  affection,  and  the  "sad  embroidery" 
of  fancy-streaked  grief,  and  expressed  his  kindred  feelings  in 
those  little  quintessences  of  criticism  which  are  appended  to 


LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN.  249 


the  noblest  scenes  in  his  "  Specinnens  ;"  and  seeking  amidst 
the  sunnier  and  more  varied  world  of  Shakspearc  for  the  pro- 
foundcst  and  most  earnest  passion  developed  there,  obtained 
that  marvelous  insight  into  the  soul  of  Lear  which  gives  to 
his  presentment  of  its  riches  almost  the  character  of  creation. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  congenial  pastime  with  him  to 
revel  in  the  opposite  excellencies  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
who  changed  the  domain  of  tragedy  into  fairy  land  ;  turned 
all  its  terror  and  its  sorrow  "  to  favor  and  to  prettiness  ;" 
shed  the  rainbow  hues  of  sportive  fancy  with  equal  hand 
among  tyrants  and  victims,  the  devoted  and  the  faithless, 
suffering  and  joy ;  represented  the  beauty  of  goodness  as  a 
happy  accident,  vice  as  a  wayward  aberration,  and  invoked 
the  remorse  of  a  moment  to  change  them  as  with  a  harle- 
quin's wand ;  unrealized  the  terrible,  and  left  "  nothing 
serious  in  mortality,"  but  reduced  the  struggle  of  life  to  a 
glittering  and  heroic  game,  to  be  played  splendidly  out,  and 
quitted  without  a  sigh.  But  neither  Lamb's  own  secret 
griefs,  nor  the  tastes  which  they  nurtured,  ever  shook  his 
faith  in  the  requisitions  of  duty,  or  induced  him  to  dally  with 
that  moral  paradox  to  which  near  acquaintance  with  the 
great  errors  of  mighty  natures  is  sometimes  a  temptation. 
Never,  either  in  writing  or  in  speech,  did  he  purposely  con- 
found good  with  evil.  For  the  new  theories  of  morals  which 
gleamed  out  in  the  conversations  of  some  of  his  friends,  he 
had  no  sj'mpathy  ;  and  though,  in  his  boundless  indulgence 
to  the  perversities  and  foults  of  those  whom  long  familiarity 
had  endeared  to  him,  he  did  not  suifer  their  frailties  to  impair 
his  attachment  to  the  individuals,  he  never  palliated  the  frail- 
ties themselves ;  still  less  did  he  emblazon  them  as  virtues. 

No  one,  acquainted  with  Lamb's  story,  will  wonder  at 
the  eccentric  wildness  of  his  mirth — his  violent  changes  from 
the  serious  to  the  farcical — the  sudden  reliefs  of  the  "  heat- 
oppressed  brain,"  and  heart  weighed  down  by  the  sense  of 
ever-impending  sorrow.  His  whim,  however,  almost  always 
bordered  on  wisdom.  It  was  justly  said  of  him  by  Flazlitt, 
"  his  serious  conversation,  like  his  serious  writing,  is  his 
best.  No  one  ever  stammered  out  such  fine,  piquant,  deep, 
eloquent  things  in  half  a  dozen  half-sentences  ;  his  jests  scald 
like  tears,  and  he  probes  a  question  with  a  ploy  on  words." 

Although  Lamb's  conversation  vibrated  between  the   in- 
11* 


250  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES    LAMB. 

tense  and  the  grotesque,  his  writings  are  replete  with  quiet 
pictures  of  the  humbler  scenery  of  middle  life,  touched  with 
a  graceful  and  loving  hand.  We  may  trace  in  them  the 
experience  of  a  nature  bred  up  in  slender  circumstances, 
but  imbued  with  a  certain  innate  spirit  of  geniility,  suggest- 
ing a  respect  for  all  its  moderate  appliances  and  unambitious 
pleasures.  The  same  spirit  pervaded  all  his  own  domestic 
arrangements,  so  that  the  intensity  of  his  affliction  was  ame- 
liorated by  as  much  comfort,  as  satisfaction  in  the  outward 
furniture  of  life  can  give  to  slender  fortune. 

The  most  important  light,  however,  shed  on  Lamb's 
intellectual  life  by  a  knowledge  of  his  true  history,  is  that 
which  elucidates  the  change  from  vivid  religious  impressions, 
manifested  in  his  earlier  letters,  to  an  apparent  indifference 
towards  immortal  interests  and  celestial  relations,  which  he 
confesses  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson.*  The  truth  is, 
not  that  he  became  an  unbeliever,  or  even  a  skeptic,  but  that 
the  peculiar  disasters  in  which  he  was  plunged,  and  the  ten- 
dency  of  his  nature  to  seek  immediate  solaces,  induced  an 
habitual  reluctance  to  look  boldly  out  into  futurity.  That 
conjugal  love,  which  anticipates  with  far-looking  eye  pro- 
longed existence  in  posterity,  was  denied  to  his  self-sacrifice, 
irksome  labor  wearied  out  the  heart  of  his  days;  and  over 
his  small  household  Madness,  like  Death  in  the  vision  of 
Milton,  continually  "  shook  its  dart,"  and  only,  at  the  best, 
"delayed  to  strike."  Not  daring  to  look  onward,  even  for 
a  little  month,  he  acquired  the  habitual  sense  of  living  en- 
tirely in  the  present ;  enjoying  with  tremulous  zest  the 
security  of  the  moment,  and  making  some  genial,  but  sad, 
amends  for  the  want  of  all  the  pei'spective  of  life,  by  cleaving, 
with  fondness,  to  its  nearest  objects,  and  becoming  attached 
to  them,  even  when  least  interesting  in  themselves. 

This  perpetual  grasping  at  transient  relief  from  the  mi- 
nute and  vivid  present,  associated  Lamb's  affections  intimately 
and  closely  with  the  small  details  of  daily  existence  ;  these 
became  to  him  the  "  jutting  frieze  "  and  "  coigne  of  vantage" 
in  which  his  homebred  fancy  "  made  its  bed  and  procreant 
cradle  ;"  these  became  imbued  with  his  thoughts,  and  echoed 
back  to  him  old  feelings  and  old  loves,  till  his  inmost  soul 

*  Page  83. 


LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN.  251 

shivered  at  the  prospect  of  being  finally  wrenched  from 
thcnn.  Enthralled  thus  in  the  prison  of  an  earthly  home,  he 
became  perplexed  and  bewildered  at  the  idea  of  an  existence, 
which,  though  holier  and  happier,  would  doubtless  be  entirely 
different  from  tliat  to  which  he  was  bound  by  so  many  deli- 
cate films  of  custom.  "  Ah  !"  he  would  say,  "  we  shall  have 
none  of  these  little  passages  of  this  life  hereafter — none  of 
our  little  quarrels  and  makings-up — no  questionings  about 
sixpence  at  whist ;"  and,  thus  repelled,  he  clung  more 
closely  to  "  the  bright  minutes  "  which  he  strung  "  on  the 
thread  of  keen  domestic  anguish  !"  It  is  this  intense  feel- 
ing of  the  "  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood  ;"  this  dwelling 
in  petty  felicities ;  which  makes  us,  apart  from  religious 
fears,  unwilling  to  die.  Small  associations  make  death  ter- 
rible, because  we  know,  that  parting  with  tliis  life,  we  part 
from  their  company  ;  whereas  great  thoughts  make  death 
less  fearful,  because  we  feel  that  they  will  be  our  companions 
in  all  worlds,  and  link  our  future  to  our  present  being  in  all 
ages.  Such  thoughts  assuredly  were  not  dead  in  a  heart 
like  Lamb's  ;  they  were  only  veiled  by  the  nearer  presences 
of  familiar  objects,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  bursting  in  upon 
him  in  all  their  majesty,  produced  those  startling  references 
to  sacred  things,  in  which,  though  not  to  be  quoted  with  ap- 
proval, there  was  no  profaneness,  but  rather  a  wayward, 
fitful,  disturbed  piety.  If,  indeed,  when  borne  beyond  the 
present,  he  sought  to  linger  in  the  past ;  to  detect  among  the 
dust  and  cobwebs  of  antiquity,  beauty  which  had  lurked  there 
from  old  time,  rather  than  to  "  rest  and  expatiate  in  a  life  to 
come,"  no  anti-christian  sentiment  spread  its  chilliness  over 
his  spirit.  The  shrinking  into  mortal  life  was  but  the  weak- 
ness of  a  nature  which  shed  the  sweetness  of  the  religion  of 
its  youth  through  the  sorrows  and  the  snatches  of  enjoyment 
which  crowded  his  after  years,  and  only  feebly  perceived  its 
final  glories,  which,  we  may  humbly  hope,  its  immortal  part 
is  now  enjoying. 

Shortly  before  his  death.  Lamb  had  borrowed  of  Mr. 
Gary,  Phillips's  "  Theatrum  Poetarum  Anglicartorum," 
which,  when  returned  by  Mr.  Moxon,  after  the  event,  was 
found  with  the  leaf  folded  down  at  the  account  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney.  Its  receipt  was  acknowledged  by  the  following 
lines : — 


252  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

"  So  should  it  be,  my  gentle  friend  ; 
Thy  leaf  last  closed  at  Sydney's  end. 
Thou,  too,  like  Sydney,  wouldst  have  given 
The  water,  thirsting  and  near  heaven  ; 
Nay,  were  it  wine,  fiU'd  to  the  brim. 
Thou  hadst  look'd  hard,  but  given,  like  him. 

And  art  thou  mingled  then  among 

Those  famous  sons  of  ancient  song  ? 

And  do  they  gather  round  and  praise 

Thy  relish  of  their  nobler  lays  1 

Waxing  in  mirth  to  hear  thee  tell 

With  what  strange  mortals  thou  didst  dwell  ; 

At  thy  quaint  sallies  more  delighted, 

Than  any's  long  among  them  lighted  ! 

'Tis  done  :  and  thou  hast  join'd  a  crew, 
To  whom  thy  soul  was  justly  due  ; 
And  yet  I  think,  where'er  thou  be. 
They'll  scarcely  love  thee  more  than  we."* 

Little  could  any  one,  observing  Miss  Lamb  in  the  habitual 
serenity  of  her  demeanor,  guess  the  calamity  in  which  she 
had  partaken,  or  the  malady  which  frightfully  chequered 
her  life.  From  Mr.  Lloyd,  who,  although  saddened  by  im- 
pending delusion,  was  always  found  accurate  in  his  recollec- 
tion of  long  past  events  and  conversations,  I  learned  that  she 
had  described  herself,  on  her  recovery  from  the  fatal  attack, 
as  having  experienced,  while  it  was  subsiding,  such  a  con- 
viction, that  she  was  absolved  in  heaven  from  all  taint  of  the 
deed  in  which  she  had  been  the  agent — such  an  assurance, 
that  it  was  a  dispensation  of  Providence  for  good,  though  so 
terrible — such  a  sense,  that  her  mother  knew  her  entire  in- 
nocence, and  shed  down  blessings  upon  her,  as  though  she 
had  seen  the  reconcilement  in  solemn  vision — that  she  was 
not  sorely  afflicted  by  the  recollection.  It  was  as  if  the  old 
Greek  notion,  of  the  necessity  for  the  unconscious  shedder 
of  blood,  else  polluted  though  guiltless,  to  pass  through  a  re- 
ligious purification,  had,  in  her  case,  been  happily  accom- 
plished ;    so  that,   not  only  was    she   without   remorse,   but 

*  These  lines,  characteristic  both  of  the  writer  and  the  subject,  are 
copied  from  the  Memoir  of  the  translator  of  Dante,  by  his  son,  the  Rev. 
Henry  Gary,  which,  enriched  by  many  interesting  memorials  of  contem- 
poraries, presents  as  valuable  a  picture  of  rare  ability  and  excellence  as 
ever  was  traced  by  the  fine  observation  of  filial  love. 


MARY    LAMB.  253 


without  other  sorrow  tlian  attends  on  the  death  of  an  infirm 
parent  in  a  good  old  age.  Slie  never  shrank  from  alluding 
to  her  motiier,  when  any  topic  connected  with  her  own  youth 
made  such  a  reference,  in  ordinary  respects,  natural ;  but 
spoke  of  her  as  though  no  fearful  remembrance  was  asso- 
ciated with  the  image  ;  so  that  some  of  her  most  intimate 
friends  who  knew  of  the  disaster,  believed  that  she  had  never 
become  aware  of  her  own  share  in  its  horrors.  It  is  still 
more  singular  that,  in  the  wanderings  of  her  insanity,  amidst 
all  the  vast  throngs  of  imagery  she  presented  of  her  early 
days,  this  picture  never  recurred,  or,  if  ever,  not  associated 
with  shapes  of  terror. 

Miss  Lamb  would  have  been  remarkable  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  disposition,  the  clearness  of  her  understanding, 
and  the  gentle  wisdom  of  all  her  acts  and  words,  even  if 
these  qualities  had  not  been  presented  in  marvelous  contrast 
with  the  distraction  under  which  she  suffered  for  weeks,  lat- 
terly for  months,  in  every  year.  There  was  no  tinge  of  in- 
sanity discernible  in  her  manner  to  the  most  observant  eye  ; 
not  even  in  those  distressful  periods  when  the  premonitory 
symptoms  had  apprised  her  of  its  approach,  and  she  was 
making  preparations  for  seclusion.  In  all  its  essential  sweet- 
ness, her  character  was  like  her  brother's;  while,  by  a  tem- 
per more  placid,  a  spirit  of  enjoyment  more  serene,  she  was 
enabled  to  guide,  to  counsel,  to  cheer  him  ;  and  to  protect 
him  on  the  verge  of  the  mysterious  calamity,  from  the 
depths  of  wliich  she  rose  so  often  unruffled  to  his  side.  To 
a  friend  in  any  difficulty  she  was  the  most  comfortable  of  ad- 
visers, the  wisest  of  consolers.  Hazlitt  used  to  say,  that  he 
never  met  with  a  woman  who  could  reason,  and  had  met 
with  only  one  thoroughly  reasonable — the  sole  exception 
being  Mary  Lamb.  She  did  not  wish,  however,  to  be  made 
an  exception,  to  a  general  disparagement  of  her  sex  ;  for  in 
all  her  thoughts  and  feelings  she  was  most  womanly — keep- 
ing, under  even  undue  subordination,  to  her  notion  of  a 
woman's  province,  intellect  of  rare  excellence,  which  flashed 
out  when  the  restraints  of  gentle  habit  and  humble  manner 
were  withdrawn  by  the  terrible  force  of  disease.  Though 
her  conversation  in  sanity  was  never  marked  by  smartness 
or  repartee  ;  seldom  rising  beyond  that  of  a  sensible  quiet 
gentlewoman  appreciating  and  enjoying  the  talents  of  her 


254  FINAL    MEMORIALS    OF    CHARLES    LAMB. 

friends,  it  was  otherwise  in  her  madness.  Lamb,  in  his  let- 
ter to  a  female  friend,  announcing  his  determination  to  be  en- 
tirely with  her,  speaks  of  her  pouring  out  memories  of  all  the 
events  and  persons  of  her  younger  days  ; — but  he  does  not 
mention,  what  I  am  able  from  repeated  experiences  to  add, 
that  her  ramblings  often  sparkled  with  brilliant  description 
and  shattered  beauty.  She  would  fancy  herself  in  the  days 
of  Queen  Anne  or  George  the  First ;  and  describe  the  bro- 
caded dames  and  courtly  manners,  as  though  she  had  been 
bred  among  them,  in  the  best  style  of  the  old  comedy.  It 
was  all  broken  and  disjointed,  so  that  the  hearer  could  re- 
member little  of  her  discourse  ;  but  the  fragments  were 
like  the  jeweled  speeches  of  Congreve,  only  shaken  from 
their  setting.  There  was  sometimes  even  a  vain  of  crazy 
logic  running  through  them,  associating  things  essentially 
most  dissimilar,  but  connecting  them  by  a  verbal  association 
in  strange  order.  As  a  mere  physical  instance  of  deranged 
intellect,  her  condition  was,  I  believe,  extraordinary ;  it  was 
as  if  the  finest  elements  of  mind  had  been  shaken  into  fan- 
tastic combinations  like  those  of  a  kaleidoscope  ; — but  not 
ft)r  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  a  curious  phenomenon  of  men- 
tal aberration  are  the  aspects  of  her  insanity  unveiled,  but  to 
illustrate  the  moral  force  of  gentleness  by  which  the  faculties 
that  thus  sparkled  when  restraining  wisdom  was  withdrawn, 
were  subjected  to  its  sway,  in  her  periods  of  reason. 

The  following  letter  from  Miss  Lamb  to  Miss  Words- 
worth, on  one  of  the  chief  external  events  of  Lamb's  history, 
the  removal  from  the  'Temple  to  Covent  Garden,  will  illus- 
trate the  cordial  and  womanly  strain  of  her  observation  on 
the  occurrences  of  daily  life,  and  afford  a  good  idea  of  her 
habitual  conversation  among  her  friends. 

My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth, 

Your  kind  letter  has  given  us  very  great  pleasure, 
the  sight  of  your  handwriting  was  a  most  welcome  surprise 
to  us.  We  have  heard  good  tidings  of  you  by  all  our  friends 
who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  visit  you  this  summer,  and  re- 
joice to  see  it  confirmed  by  yourself.  You  have  quite  the 
advantage,  in  volunteering  a  letter  ;  there  is  no  merit  in  re- 
plying to  so  welcome  a  stranger. 

We  have  left  the  Temple.     I  think  you  will  be  sony  to 


MARY    LAMB. 


hear  this.  I  know  I  have  never  been  so  well  satisfied  with 
thinking  of  you  at  Rydal  Mount,  as  when  I  couM  connect 
the  idea  of  you  with  your  own  Grasmere  Cottage.  Our  rooms 
were  dirty,  and  out  of  repair,  and  the  inconveniences  of  living 
in  chambers  became  every  year  more  irksome,  and  so,  at 
last,  we  mustered  up  resolution  enough  to  leave  the  good  old 
place  that  so  long  had  sheltered  us,  and  here  we  are,  living 
at  a  brazier's  shop,  No.  20  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden, 
a  place  all  alive  with  noise  and  bustle  ;  Drury  Lane  Theatre 
in  sight  from  our  front,  and  Covent  Garden  from  our  back 
windows.  The  hubbub  of  the  carriages  returning  from  the 
play  does  not  annoy  me  in  the  least ;  strange  that  it  does  not, 
for  it  is  quite  tremendous.  I  quite  enjoy  looking  out  of  the 
window,  and  listening  to  the  calling  up  of  the  carriages,  and 
the  squabbles  of  the  coachmen  and  linkboys.  It  is  the  oddest 
scene  to  look  down  upon  ;  I  am  sure  you  would  be  amused 
with  it.  It  is  well  I  am  in  a  cheerful  place,  or  I  should  have 
many  misgivings  about  leaving  the  Temple.  I  look  forward 
with  great  pleasure  to  the  prospect  of  seeing  my  good  friend, 
Miss  Hutchinson.  I  wish  Rydal  Mount,  with  all  its  inhabit- 
ants inclosed,  were  to  be  transplanted  with  her,  and  to  re- 
main stationary  in  the  midst  of  Covent  Garden. 


Charles  has  had  all  his  Ilogarths  bound  in  a  book  ;  they 
were  sent  home  yesterday ;  and  now  that  I  have  them  alto- 
gether, and  perceive  the  advantage  of  peeping  close  at  them 
through  my  spectacles,  I  am  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  them 
hanging  round  the  room,  which  has  been  a  great  mortifica- 
tion to  me — in  vain  I  tried  to  console  myself  with  looking  at 
our  new  chairs  and  carpets,  for  we  have  got  new  chairs, 
and  carpets  covering  all  over  our  two  sitting-rooms ;  I 
missed  my  old  friends,  and  could  not  be  comforted — then 
I  would  resolve  to  learn  to  look  out  of  the  window,  a  habit 
I  never  could  attain  in  my  life,  and  I  have  given  it  up  as  a 
thing  quite  impracticable — yet  when  I  was  at  Brighton  last 
summer,  the  first  week  I  never  took  my  eyes  otT  from  the 
sea,  not  even  to  look  in  a  book  :  I  had  not  seen  the  sea  for 
sixteen  years.  Mrs.  M ,  who  was  with  us,  kept  her  lik- 
ing, and  continued  the  seat  in  the  window  till  the  very  last, 
while  Charles  and  I  played  truants,   and   wandered   among 


256  FINAL   MEMORIALS    OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

u _ 

the  hills,  which  we  magnified  into  little  mountains,  and  almost 
as  good  as  Westmoreland  scenery :  certainly  we  made  dis- 
coveries of  many  pleasant  walks,  which  few  of  the  Brighton 
visitors  have  ever  dreamed  of — for  like  as  is  the  case  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  after  the  first  two  or  three  miles  we 
were  sure  to  find  ourselves  in  a  perfect  solitude.  I  hope  we 
shall  meet  before  the  walking  faculties  of  either  of  us  fail ; 
you  say  you  can  walk  fifteen  miles  with  ease,  that  is  exactly 
my  stint,  and  more  fatigues  me ;  four  or  five  miles  every 
third  or  fourth  day,  keeping  very  quiet  between,  was  all  Mrs. 

M could  accomplish. 

God  bless  you  and  yours.     Love  to  all  and  each  one. 
I  am  ever  yours  most  affectionately, 

M.  Lamb. 

Of  that  deeper  vein  of  sentiment  in  Mary  Lamb,  seldom 
revealed,  the  following  passages,  from  a  letter  to  the  same 
lady,  referring  to  the  death  of  a  brother  of  her  beloved  cor- 
respondent, may  be  offered  as  a  companion  specimen. 

My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth, 

I  thank  you,  my  kind  friend,  for  your  most  com- 
fortable letter ;  till  I  saw  your  own  handwriting,  I  could  not 
persuade  myself  that  I  should  do  well  to  write  to  you,  though 
I  have  often  attempted  it ;  but  1  always  left  off",  dissatisfied 
with  what  I  had  written,  and  feeling  that  I  was  doing  an 
improper  thing  to  intrude  upon  your  sorrow.  I  wished  to 
tell  you  that  you  would  one  day  feel  the  kind  of  peaceful 
state  of  mind  and  sweet  memory  of  the  dead,  which  you  so 
happily  describe,  as  now  almost  begun  ;  but  I  felt  that  it  was 
improper,  and  most  grating  to  the  feelings  of  the  afflicted,  to 
say  to  them  that  the  memory  of  their  affection  would  in  time 
become  a  constant  part,  not  only  of  their  dream,  but  of  their 
most  wakeful  sense  of  happiness.  That  you  would  see  every 
object  with,  and  through  your  lost  brother,  and  that  that 
would  at  last  become  a  real  and  everlasting  source  of  com- 
fort to  you,  1  fel',  and  well  knew,  from  my  own  experience 
in  sorrow ;  but  till  you  yourself  began  to  feel  this,  I  did  not 
dare  tell  you  so ;  but  1  send  you  some  poor  lines,  which  I 
wrote  under  this  conviction  of  mind,  and  before  I  heard  Cole- 
ridge was  returning  home.     I  will  transcribe  them  now,  be- 


MARY    LAMB.  257 


fore  I  finish  my  letter,  lest  a  false  shame  prevent  me  then, 
for  I  know  they  are  much  worse  than  thoy  ought  to  be,  writ- 
ten, as  they  were,  with  strong  feeling,  and  on  such  a  subject, 
every  line  seems  to  me  to  be  borrowed,  but  I  had  no  better 
way  of  expressing  my  thoughts,  and  I  never  have  the  power 
of  altering  or  amending  any  thing  I  have  once  laid  aside  with 
dissatisfaction. 

Why  is  he  wandering  on  the  sea? — 
Coleridge  should  now  with  Wordsworth  be. 
By  slow  degrees  he'd  steal  away 
Their  woe,  and  gently  bring  a  ray 
(So  happily  he'd  time  relief",) 
Of  comfort  from  their  very  grief. 
He'd  tell  them  that  their  brother  dead. 
When  years  have  passed  o'er  their  head, 
Will  be  remembered  with  such  holy. 
True,  and  perfect  melancholy, 
That  ever  this  lost  brother  John 
Will  be  their  heart's  companion. 
His  voice  they'll  always  hear. 

His  face  they'll  always  see  ; 
There's  nought  in  life  so  sweet 

As  such  a  memory. 

The  excellence  of  Mary  Lamb's  nature  was  happily  de- 
veloped in  her  portion  of  those  books  for  children — "  wisest, 
virtuousest,  discreetest,  best," — which  she  wrote  in  conjunc- 
tion with  her  brother,  the  "Poetry  for  Children,"  the  "  Tales 
from  Sliakspeare,"  and  "  Mrs.  Leicester's  School."  How 
different  from  the  stony  nutriment  provided  for  those  delicate, 
apprehensive,  affectionate  creatures,  in  the  utilitarian  books, 
which  starve  their  little  hearts,  and  stuff  their  little  heads 
with  shallow  science,  and  impertinent  facts,  and  selfish  mor- 
als !  One  verse,  which  slie  did  not  print — the  conclusion  of 
a  little  poem  supposed  to  be  expres.sed  in  a  letter  by  the  son 
of  a  family  who,  when  expecting  the  return  of  its  father  from 
sea,  received  news  of  his  death, — recited  by  her  to  Mr.  Martin 
Burney,  and  retained  in  his  fond  recollection,  may  afford  a 
concluding  example  of  the  healthful  wisdom  of  her  lessons  : — 

"  I  can  no  longer  feign  to  be 
A  thoughtless  child  in  infancy  ; 
I  tried  to  write  like  young  INIarie, 

But  I  am  .lames,  her  brother  ; 
And  I  can  feel — but  she's  too  young — 
Yet  blessings  on  her  prattling  tongue. 

She  sweetly  soothes  my  mother." 


258  FINAL   MEMORIALS   OF   CHARLES   LAMB. 

Contraiy  to  Lamb's  expectation,  who  feared  (as  also  his 
friends  feared  with  him)  the  desolation  of  his  own  survivor- 
ship, which  the  difference  of  age  rendered  probable,  Miss 
Lamb  survived  him  for  nearly  eleven  years.  When  he  died, 
she  was  mercifully  in  a  state  of  partial  estrangement,  which, 
while  it  did  not  wholly  obscure  her  mind,  deadened  her  feel- 
ings, so  that  as  she  gradually  regained  her  perfect  senses, 
she  felt  as  gradually  the  full  force  of  the  blow,  and  was  the 
better  able  calmly  to  bear  it.  For  awhile  she  declined  the 
importunities  of  her  friends  that  she  would  leave  Edmonton 
for  a  residence  nearer  London,  where  they  might  more  fre- 
quently visit  her.  He  was  there,  asleep  in  tlie  old  church- 
yard, beneath  the  turf  near  which  they  had  stood  together, 
and  had  selected  for  a  resting-place  ;  to  this  spot  she  used, 
when  well,  to  stroll  out  mournfully  in  the  evening,  and  to 
this  spot  she  would  contrive  to  lead  any  friend  who  came  in 
the  summer  evenings  to  drink  tea  and  went  out  with  her 
afterwards  for  a  walk.*  At  length,  as  her  illnesses  became 
more  frequent,  and  her  frame  much  weaker,  she  was  induced 
t  o  take  up  her  abode  under  genial  care,  at  a  pileasant  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood,  where  she  was  surrounded  by  the  old 
books  and  prints,  and  was  frequently  visited  by  .her  reduced 
number  of  surviving  friends.  Repeated  attacks  of  her  mal- 
ady weakened  her  mind,  but  she  retained  to  the  last  her 
sweetness  of  disposition  unimpaired,  and  gently  sunk  into 
death  on  the  20th  May,  1847. 

A  few  survivors  of  the  old  circle,  now  sadly  thinned,  at- 

*  The  following  Sonnet,  by  Mr.  Moxon,  written  at  this  period  of 
tranquil  sadness  in  Miss  Lamb's  life,  so  beautifully  embodies  the  rever- 
ential love  with  which  the  sleeping  and  the  mourning  were  regarded  by 
one  of  their  nearest  friends,  that  I  gratify  myself  by  extracting  it  from 
the  charming  little  volume  of  his  Sonnets,  which  it  adorns  : 

Here  sleejjs,  beneath  this  bank,  where  daisies  grow, 

Tlie  kindliest  sprite  earth  holds  within  her  breast  ; 

la  such  a  spot  I  would  this  frame  should  rest, 
When  I  to  join  my  friend  far  hence  shall  go. 
His  only  mate  is  now  tlie  minstrel  lark, 

W^ho  chants  her  morning  music  o'er  his  bed, 
Save  she  who  cnmes  eacii  evening,  ere  the  bark 

Of  watch-dog  gathers  drowsy  folds,  to  shed 
A  sister's  tears.     Kind  Heaven,  upon  her  head, 

Do  thou  in  dove-like  guise  thy  spirit  jiour. 
And  in  her  aged  path  some  flowrets  spread 

Of  earthly  joy,  should  Time  for  her  in  store 
Have  weary  days  and  nijjhts,  ere  she  shall  greet 
Uim  whom  she  longs  in  Paradise  to  meet. 


MARY    LAMB.  259 


tended  her  remains  to  the  spot  in  Edmonton  church-yard » 
where  they  were  laid  above  those  of  her  brother.  With  them 
was  one  friend  of  later  days — but  who  had  become  to  Lamb 
as  one  of  his  oldest  companions,  and  for  whom  Miss  Lamb 
cherished  a  strong  regard — Mr.  Jolui  Foster,  the  author  of 
"  The  Life  of  Goldsmith,"  in  which  Lamb  would  have  re- 
joiced, as  written  in  a  spirt  congenial  with  his  own.  In  ac- 
cordance with  Lamb's  own  feelings,  so  far  as  it  could  be  ga- 
thered from  iiis  expressions  on  a  subject  to  which  he  did  not 
often,  or  willingly,  refer,  he  had  been  interred  in  a  deep 
grave,  simply  dug,  and  wattled  round,  but  without  any  af- 
fectation of  stone  or  brickwork  to  keep  the  human  dust  from 
its  kindred  earth.  So  dry,  however,  is  the  soil  of  the  quiet 
church-yard,  that  the  excavated  earth  left  perfect  walls  of  still' 
clay,  and  permitted  us  just  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  still  un- 
tarnished edges  of  the  coffin  in  which  all  the  mortal  part  of 
one  of  the  most  delightful  persons  who  ever  lived  was  con- 
tained, and  on  which  the  remains  of  her  he  had  loved,  with 
love  "  passing  the  love  of  woman,"  were  henceforth  to  rest ; 
— the  last  glances  we  shall  ever  have  even  of  that  covering; 
— concealed  from  us  as  we  parted,  by  the  coffin  of  the  sister. 
We  felt,  I  believe  after  a  moment's  strange  shuddering, 
that  the  re-union  was  well  accomplished ;  and  although  the 
true-hearted  son  of  Admiral  Burney,  who  had  known  and 
loved  the  pair  we  quitted,  from  a  child,  and  who  had  been 
among  the  dearest  objects  of  existence  to  him,  refused  to  be 
comforted, — even  he  will  now  join  the  scanty  remnant  of 
their  friends  in  the  softened  remembrance  that  "  they  were 
lovely  in  their  lives,"  and  own  with  them  the  consolation  of 
adding,  at  last,  "  that  in  death  they  are  not  divided  ?" 


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